


2 + 2 = More

by copyallcatsandacrobats (ordinaryalchemy)



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Humor, LITERALLY, M/M, Mirrors, Romance, finding a way back home, some porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 83,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryalchemy/pseuds/copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn and Lassiter are shocked when versions of themselves from a parallel universe come through the mirrors and are stuck in their world until they can figure out who or what caused the phenomenon and how to reverse it. More shocking still is that their alternate selves are in a serious relationship—something Shawn has wanted for a long time, but something that seriously baffles Lassiter. Unsure that they will ever get home, the alternate Shawn and Lassiter jump into the investigation, aided somewhat awkwardly by the original Shawn and Lassiter, who may just find something growing between them with the help of their other selves. COMPLETED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shawn Spencer was on his knees in the middle of a mostly silent crowd; he had his eyes closed as if he was concentrating, and the tips of his fingers were set to his forehead like he was pointing out where the psychic vibe should zap him next. He could hear whispers and the shifting of feet, but he waited, pretending to listen to the music of the universe—actually, he was holding out for one sound, one particular annoyed sigh, and when he heard it he would know his cue. It wouldn't be until he was pissed off, thinking again that their time was being wasted while the murderer stood in the room with an overly innocent expression, that Detective Lassiter would pay enough attention to Shawn to make everything worth it. 

True, it would be irritated attention, and Lassie would almost certainly either insist again that Shawn wasn't psychic, or try to convince Chief Vick to kick him off the case, but after Shawn laid everything out and wrapped it up for them so nicely—he could do everything but tie the bow on it—no one, least of all the chief, would pay attention to _him_. 

There it was—there was only one person Shawn knew that could snort so derisively. He wanted to smile and open his eyes, to gauge Lassiter's reaction when he appeared to solve everything in less than five minutes, but he needed to stay in character. This time he'd miss the way Lassie's eyes would widen and then blaze at him, furious that he'd gotten to the end first, supremely annoyed that the only answer he gave was of the mystic, and that he hardly ever even needed to offer any sort of proof anymore before everyone believed him and stood back in awe. Which was fitting, Shawn thought, as his mental powers—while not exactly what he claimed—were deserving of the awe. 

If only Lassie would see that.

“I'm making soup,” Shawn announced at last, and he pantomimed adding something to a pot before stirring it, still with his eyes closed. He then ladled some into a bowl. “Chicken soup for the chronically-ill soul, but—oh no! The secret ingredient! _That's_ not love, or even salt. She takes it to Mrs. Norbert—and then stands and watches her eat it, making sure every bite is gone! Her plan is carried out, but...ugh! Grrrak!” He clutched at his throat now and fell to the ground, gasping, hearing more murmurs, including Chief Vick muttering, “She?” either to Lassiter or Juliet. 

Their initial arrest of the dead woman's husband had been a good bet—he'd been the one set to receive his wife's entire estate, and her sister had told the detectives on the case that they had been having marital problems, mostly due to his infidelity. The sudden, suspicious death of the couple's granddaughter, and the coroner's strange findings, had been the kicker—it had been what had finally stopped Shawn's compass from spinning, landing at last on the housekeeper. 

He gagged a few more times for show, and then he opened his eyes and affected confusion. “I'm dead?” he said. “That chicken soup wasn't good for my soul at all—and it wasn't good for Mrs. Norbert or poor little Hannah.” He turned and pointed dramatically at the housekeeper, whose wide eyes and pale face did everything but sign her confession. “Hannah dying was an accident,” he said softly. “Wasn't it, Mrs. Prolip? She came into the kitchen, looking for a snack, and got a bowl of the soup you'd made when you were upstairs with Mrs. Norbert. She was hungry, and ate a lot faster than the old woman, and when you came back down you didn't see her bowl in the sink. You'd been poisoning Mrs. Norbert for days, but Hannah was much smaller than her grandmother, so the poison took effect much more quickly. You probably upped the last batch to a higher dose, too, since she'd found out about her husband cheating on her... with you.”

The housekeeper suddenly burst into tears, holding her hands over her face while Juliet and Lassiter moved to stand on either side of her. “I never meant to hurt that little girl,” she sobbed. “She had nothing to do with it. I'm so sorry.”

“But you had no compunctions about killing your lover's wife, a woman suffering a long illness?” Lassiter jumped in, looking disgusted. He nodded at Juliet, who pulled her cuffs out and clicked them around Kathy Prolip's wrists while reciting the Miranda to her quietly. Lassiter turned to follow her as she led the still-weeping housekeeper out of the big kitchen and toward the door, but he glanced back at Shawn and frowned. Shawn gave him a grin, pleased that he had another solve under his belt and that they'd gotten the murderer, but Lassie just rolled his eyes as he exited.

“Excellent work, Mr. Spencer,” Chief Vick said. 

Shawn put his solemn expression back on. “I'm just glad we were able to secure justice for that poor woman and her granddaughter. It was the little girl that told me her soup tasted funny.”

“Right.” Vick sighed. “Come on down to the station—we'll have Detective Lassiter take your statement when he's through supervising Detective O'Hara's wrap up of the case. Your check should be ready in a couple of days.”

Sweet—in a couple of days, Gus would be back from his boring work thing in Phoenix, and Shawn could surprise him with a receipt for the Psych office's paid rent for that month. Or a carnival-rated cotton candy machine and the entire box set of Monty Python's Flying Circus, that would likely be equally as surprising. Shawn decided he'd figure that out in the moment, to see which way the wind led his heart. He was wonderfully whimsical like that.

Shawn rode to the PD on his bike and hung out with Buzz for an hour while Lassie and Jules were finishing up with Mrs. Prolip. He listened to updates on the little boy cat, heard about how Buzz was still studying for the D.E.T. (Shawn took a minute to have a vision about a trick question he recalled from the time he'd taken it), told him about the time he and Gus had successfully convinced a substitute teacher that they didn't have to take a math test because their parents agreed that long division was the work of the devil (“Remainders are just plain unholy, Buzz—the good lord Jesus provides for those that are left out only if they take Him into their hearts”), and made origami animals for Juliet's desk. (He would have made something for Lassie, but he didn't know how to make a paper anti-liberal.) 

By the time Lassie was ready for him, he was in an even more terrible mood than the last time Shawn had seen him. He almost slammed the door of the interview room behind them, and then he nearly flung a yellow pad and a pen at him. “Write,” he ordered. “And make it fast, I have actual work to do to get this buttoned up and done.”

“Sure thing, Lass,” Shawn said lightly, reaching for the pen. “I only did everything else, for which you are externally welcome.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “I think you mean _eternally_. Which isn't true either way, because I didn't thank you.”

“Well, that wasn't very mannerly of you.”

Lassiter simply folded his arms and stared him down; Shawn might have been able to win a staring contest, but Lassie actually looked pissed—not just at the case, but at Shawn—so he sighed softly and started to write. He laid out everything just the way he'd told it during his breakdown, adding a few dramatic touches to round out the story, and signed with a flourish. When he looked back up to hand it off, he was slightly surprised to find Lassiter directly next to him and staring down at him. He raised his eyebrows innocently, and Lassie leaned close, using his best intimidating glare while he reached over to snatch up the legal pad. Shawn couldn't help but to glance at his lips when he started speaking, and when he made himself look back up to his eyes, he had to remind himself to focus on what he was saying and not the clear, bright, piercing blue of them.

“I don't know how you really do it,” he said, “but rest assured that someday I am going to find you out, Spencer. And the next time you use a dead child to lend credibility to your bullshit, I swear I'll hound you every minute until I find _something_ to arrest you for.”

“Sounds stalkery,” Shawn said. “Let me know in advance if you're going to be spying on me in my undies so that I'm not wearing my Granny panties if it's laundry day. Look, Lassie, I am _very sure_ that that kid wanted her killer to be caught. Are you going to tell me that you don't believe she would have? And now you have the murderer behind bars, with a confession in front of witnesses and everything. I know you don't believe in me, in my abilities, but that's cool—you don't have to. Just trust me once in awhile when I gift-wrap a killer for you. Justice is served either way, so what does it matter which way it was cooked up?”

“Trust you,” Lassiter sneered. “I'd rather wear a jock strap made of lettuce.” He stood up straight again, although he was still glaring, and jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Get out of here.”

Shawn sighed and got up. He stopped in the restroom on the way out and stared in the mirror for a long moment after washing his hands, definitely not thinking about Lassie and what he actually might have done if Shawn had kissed him when he'd gotten in his face and threatened him. It had been an idea he'd had before—a number of times, really, just about every time Lassie got that close to him. He often leaned down over him, so close that Shawn would only have to crane his neck up in order to reach him. He could claim he'd done it just to fluster the other man, much like Bugs Bunny did when he was on the business end of a shotgun, but Lassiter had quick reflexes, and Shawn wasn't sure enough that he wouldn't end up with a broken nose to actually try it. He rather liked his nose the way it was. He ran a finger lightly down the straight line of it to his lips, and then he checked his teeth in his reflection and gave himself a toothpaste commercial grin. He nodded and started to look away—

—but out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw his reflection wink.

Shawn frowned and stared into the mirror, gazing hard into his own eyes for several seconds. He hadn't felt a wink coming on, which was weird, because when he checked his memory, he could have sworn... 

It must have been the lights, he decided, glancing up at a long fluorescent bar that was flickering slightly. What else could it have been? He looked back into the mirror and saw only his own face, a small amount of suspicion, and great hair. He shook his head, ready to give it up and go get some lunch, and then he paused again. Did his reflection shake its head one more time than Shawn himself had? No. It couldn't have. Having another confrontation with Lassiter must have put his spirits off more than he thought. He looked at his reflection warily for another moment, and then he left, deciding he'd more than earned a pint of that kind of ice cream that had little bits of waffle cone in it for dinner. Gus said that kind of ice cream in an ice cream cone was redundant, but that was coming from a man who put sugar on his Frosted Flakes, so who was counting?

.

Lassiter stayed irritated for hours after Spencer left, enough so that even O'Hara left him alone to finish his reports, and she didn't comment when he pulled out files for another one of their cases and started flipping through them. She said goodnight when she went home for the day, but she didn't stick around to see if he was going to respond, which went to show how well she was getting to know him, because he barely noticed. He laid out sheets of interview notes and autopsy reports on the surface of his desk and gazed over them, getting more and more pissed off when he found, over and over, that he was thinking about Spencer instead.

Fucking Spencer—holding his fingers to his forehead and exploiting the death of a child in order to scoop up more unfounded reverence when it came to his ludicrous tales of magic and spirits and whatever else. And no, it barely made any difference that he somehow guessed right so much of the time, enough so that the chief continued to call on his Frauds-R-Us line. It had to be just lucky guesswork, there was no way he could have just _known_ the housekeeper was sleeping with the husband. Lassiter himself surely would have arrived at that conclusion himself if Spencer hadn't interrupted his and O'Hara's runthrough of the evidence with claims that the little girl who had died was telling him that her killer wasn't the husband after all.

_Justice is served either way, so what does it matter which way it was cooked up?_

It mattered. True police work mattered, and chains of evidence mattered, and not being a cocky smart ass who flounced around and made the occasional good guess and grinned like he knew all of the secrets of the universe mattered. Not obstructing justice by giving false statements and then making stupid comments about spying on him in his underwear mattered. Like Lassiter gave a good goddamn about his underwear.

He growled at the papers strewn across his desk, and then he got up in a hurry, heading for the restroom where he could hold his hands under the ice cold water in the sink and then rub his eyes, a method he often used for an oncoming headache. He had been awake for almost twenty-four hours at this point—he had hardly slept the entire week, in fact, ever since Celina Norbert had been found dead and then her granddaughter had suddenly passed—and now he was feeling the effects all at once. His eyes were tired and scratchy, his head pounded, and his face felt hot and flushed to the tips of his ears. 

He brushed all of it aside and focused on the cold water running over his hands, and then he bent down to hold the heels of his palms against his eyes, cooling his skin and making his thoughts slow down. He chilled his hands before holding them on his face several more times, rubbing his eyes and his forehead until he felt completely calm again. He didn't really know—or care to know—what it was he'd even been thinking of that had made his thoughts feel like they were about to short out a few minutes ago; he felt better now, and that was what mattered. He could get back to work, and might as well, because his house was empty and there wasn't much of anything to do except flip channels and think about working anyway. 

He reached for the paper towel dispenser, yanking out a few and blotting any remaining water droplets on his face and neck, and then he tossed the ball into the wastebasket and checked his tie. It had been around his neck so long that the knot was loosened, so he tightened it. He stood up straighter and gave himself a professional nod. 

Then his expression suddenly grew uneasy, his eyes flicking over his face carefully, warily—something wasn't right. He wasn't sure what it was, wasn't sure that he even knew what he was seeing, but he knew his own face, all right, and something just seemed... off. The face looking back at him was definitely _his_ , and there wasn't any silly nonsense like sleep-deprived hallucinations making him appear to have an extra eye or antennae or anything, so what—

Did he really have _that_ much stubble on his cheeks after just one day? He brought his hand up and ran it over his face, feeling the slight sandpaper of a five o'clock shadow, but it had looked like—for just a second he thought he'd seen—

No. He took his hand away and leaned closer to the mirror again, seeing the start of what he called You _Could_ Shave, So You Should. He didn't like stubble, it was unprofessional, but after almost a week on the death of the old woman and the kid, the last triple-shift all rolled into one, he could give himself a pass on the skipped shave that morning. What he'd thought he'd seen in the mirror for a second must have been his brain showing him what he'd look like tomorrow morning if he didn't get a good night's rest and then get back to his good, presentable, professional image. 

Lassiter sighed and headed back to his desk, intending to sweep everything together and leave it until tomorrow, but then something on the autopsy report for a man who had supposedly committed suicide jumped out at him, and he grabbed for a witness statement to re-read it, sitting back down into his chair and leaning over with his chin in his hand and his notepad turned to a fresh page. Working was better than sitting at home alone any day, any night.


	2. Chapter 2

Shawn was having a wonderful dream, which turned less wonderful the second he realized it was a dream. That was the awesome but sucky part of such lucid dreams: if they got too awful, which they sometimes did, he could sometimes willfully affect the content or the outcome, changing it from a nightmare to something tolerable, or he could at least make himself wake up. On the other hand, when they were good, he could have anything he wanted, in any way he wanted, at least until the part of him that knew it wasn't real ruined it by thinking wistfully _if only this could be real_.

This one was a little weirder than normal, though—when he dreamed of anything involving himself, he almost always saw things from his own eyes, his own point of view. This time, however, he seemed to be watching himself—watching himself and Lassie going _all_ the way downtown. They were in bed, both naked, and it was when Lassie gently pushed Shawn down on his back and got between his spread legs, hoisting them up and then—holy Jesus fuck—pushing his dick inside his ass and starting to fuck him, that Shawn knew he was dreaming and got slightly depressed, which was weird considering that he was so hard that his dick almost hurt. The Shawn on the bed sure seemed to be enjoying Lassie railing him, and Shawn thought he could almost feel it himself, his body being rocked back and forth while those blue, blue eyes gazed down at him and the man holding on to him said his name.

He woke up with his hand on his dick through his shorts, already stroking it, and already so close to coming that he was nearly in trouble of having to change. “Fuck,” he muttered, and closed his eyes firmly, wanting to go back to that image while he shoved his hand inside his boxers and then pulled his dick out. He tried to see what he'd seen his dream again, but this time from his own point of view; he bent his knees up and spread his legs, imagining Lassie between them, thinking back to the last time he'd been with a guy and trying to lay the memory of that sensation with the idea of Lassie inside him, fucking him hard. He squeezed the head of his cock and moaned a little, imagining that it was Lassie's hand, wanting to make him come while still pounding him. Shawn's hand moved faster, his other hand pushing his tee up and then rolling one of his nipples, and as he imagined what Lassie's face might look like as he shoved his dick all the way up his ass and then came inside him, Shawn came himself, fast and hard and good, so good he couldn't breathe for a few seconds and then he lay back, gasping and panting.

Shawn sighed as he reached up to wipe his hand off on his shirt, and then he pulled the shirt off and swabbed his stomach with it, tossing it in a ball toward the bathroom. He fixed his shorts and then lay there for a few seconds, thinking about the dream and the fantasy, knowing it would almost certainly never happen, which sucked (and totally not in the good way). He sighed again and got up to get a glass of water, squinting against the harsh light of the bathroom fluorescents while he turned the tap on, ran his hands under the water, and dried them on a towel that still hung over the shower bar. He turned back around and picked up the glass he kept his toothbrush in, dumping it out on the counter before holding the glass in the sink to fill it.

He glanced into the mirror as he raised the glass up and took a gulp, and then then choked and spat the water out, starting to cough. His eyes watered and he rubbed at them quickly, trying to clear them enough to see his reflection again, to confirm that he hadn't seen what he thought he had. He stared for a long time, turning his head back and forth and then raising his hands up to pat at his hair, touch his face, do some jazz hands and then the Home Alone Kid face. He blinked and shook his head, wondering what the fuck was going on. Earlier it had seemed that he'd winked at himself in the mirror but had only seen it in the reflection, not felt it on his own face, and now, for just a split second, it had seemed like he hadn't quite been _himself_ in the mirror. 

He was himself, he knew that, but in that flash before he'd tried to gasp and instead pulled water down his windpipe, it seemed that the face looking back at him was... different. His hair had been a little shorter, more natural and less gelled or spiked up, his face and cheeks a little thinner... a small hickey on the side of his neck. All impossible: he did his hair every morning, and Gus was just wrong when he said that Shawn used too much product in it. A man only said those things when there was a base of jealousy, which Shawn could understand when it came to his hair. As for the hickey... Shawn nervously rubbed at the side of his neck where it had seemed to be (nope, just a shadow, or maybe his dream, and his fantasy, had still been with him), but it had been months since he'd gotten freaky deaky with anyone. 

Hesitantly, Shawn reached forward and touched the mirror, and then he laid the flat of his palm against it. He grinned sheepishly at how stupid he was being—what had he expected, to reach into it? For the Shawn on the other side of it to reach out and grab his hand? Shawn quickly withdrew his arm and even took a step back, giving himself a suspicious look. And then he jumped straight up into the air as a huge crack of thunder sounded and rain began to pour. He swore loudly—what the hell, he was sure it hadn't been about to rain five minutes ago!—and slammed his hand down on the bathroom light, determined to get back to sleep and forget about the whole thing. 

He was halfway across his bedroom, near the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, when a huge bolt of lightning lit up his room. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he stopped, turning his head slowly to stare at the big mirror, his mouth hanging open. In the single second the lightning shone through his window, he saw a plethora of impossibilities. For one, his reflection was also standing in the middle of a bedroom... but it wasn't his room. It was much bigger, the bed in the middle of the room instead of in the corner, the floor carpeted instead of wood laminate. There was a huge storm whipping tree branches around in a window behind his reflection's self, which was also strange, because Shawn's bedroom window didn't have any trees near it. 

His reflection was turned away from the mirror as well, looking back to the window with his shoulders hunched, as if he was afraid a branch was going to come through the window. Shawn almost wouldn't have been surprised at this point. He squinted, and although the room was dark again, he could almost swear that he still saw everything that simply could not be there. If he was still dreaming, this was the most lucid and realistic one he'd ever had. Maybe no more whole pints of ice cream for dinner, no matter how delicious Waffle Cone Craze was—ever since he'd been a kid, large amounts of sugar seemed to amp up his dreams, which had been Henry's reasoning for rationing his Halloween candy until the start of February every year. 

The thunder rumbled again, and a jingle for a car repair shop in the Midwest suddenly came to his mind. “Rattle rattle, thunderclatter, boom boom boom,” he sang softly.

“Don't worry, call the Car-X Man,” his reflection continued.

“What?!” Shawn yelped, shocked, as his reflection turned back toward the mirror and stared at him, equally shocked.

It was Shawn as he thought he'd seen himself in the mirror twice today—no doubt about it: his hair was a little different, his body was a little thinner, and he was standing in a room that Shawn had never before seen in his life. Behind him, the lightning flashed again, but not in the world Shawn knew—and when it did, he saw that it had hit part of the tree and that the branch was coming through the window after all. 

“Hey, hit the deck!” he shouted without thinking, pointing into the mirror. Just then the lightning came through his own window, and he flinched as he heard breaking glass, turning with his shoulders hunched and expecting to see that his own bedroom window was broken. It wasn't.

Shawn had barely enough time to exhale in relief and turn back toward his mirror before he saw that his reflection-self was backing away from the spray of rain, tree, and broken window that was now inside his room. He was coming fast, toward the mirror, and Shawn's mouth dropped open again as he _came through the fucking mirror_ , tripped on the frame, and fell back into Shawn, his arms flailing. Shawn was frozen in shock and he didn't have time to move out of the way or try to catch him, and everything from the clock on his nightstand to the streetlamp outside went dark as the power shorted out and he was knocked down by a very solid body—his own. He lay on the hard floor and tried to catch his breath, but there was an elbow in his stomach. 

“What the frick frack?!” the other Shawn cried out. He jerked up into a sitting position and Shawn could breathe again. As he sat up himself, he heard more glass breaking. The power flickered back on then, the streetlamp outside casting in a weak light through the rain, and he could see the very real outline of _himself_ on the floor next to him, looking around wildly.

Shawn carefully got to his feet, although his legs felt like the support they gave him was pretty tenuous. He reached over and felt the wall, and when the overhead light came on and showed him the person on the floor, he tried to speak and couldn't, feeling again like the wind had been knocked out of him. The Shawn still on the floor flinched when the bright light came on, and then he just stared around the room, facing away from Shawn.

“Huh,” he said dully. “Is that what my hair looks like from the back?”

Other-Shawn jerked and turned around fast, his eyes huge and his mouth also dropped open in shock. “Okay,” he said slowly. “No more entire containers of ice cream right before bed. Got it.”

“What kind?” Shawn asked, just to say something. He had no clue what to do, what to even _think_. 

“Um... birthday cake.”

“You rogue, it's not your birthday.”

“Don't tell me how to live my life, Mirror Man.”

“Me?” Shawn said indignantly. “ _You_ just fell out of _my_ mirror!”

The other Shawn got to his feet as well, brushing off his arms and looking around again warily. “Did not,” he said. “I walked _into_ mine. Which means this is a Mirror World and everything here is probably backwards and trippy.”

Shawn folded his arms. How dare this unauthorized Shawn-double call his world backwards? He was the one that tripped! “Then why did you come from an entirely different room?” he asked. “Why wasn't everything the same, just on the other side?”

“Hmm, good question.” Other-Shawn made a face at the room. “You've got this all wrong, dude—the bed can't be right up against the wall, and you need a rug on the floor, or he gets super cranky in the mornings when he gets out of bed and his long clown feet freeze.”

That... was just about the strangest thing Shawn Spencer never thought he'd hear coming out of his own mouth. “ _Huh?_ ” was all he could say. “Cl—? Are you telling me you're sleeping with a _clown_?” He pictured himself getting into bed with a man in white greasepaint and a jester hat. That would sure be an odd way of saying he was doing It. Beep beep, Shawnie.

The other Shawn looked completely bewildered at that. “What? Mirror-me, don't be a glass of obtuse juice—I'm talking about _Carlton_. You know, how his toes are weird and freakishly long and he hates when they're cold? You... don't know what I'm talking about,” he finished slowly, looking carefully at Shawn's face before his eyes widened in surprise. “Oh no, you're not—you're not with Carlton Lassiter? He's not your boyfriend?”

“No, I'm not!” Shawn said, his own eyes wide, and his heart rate kicked up another notch. “Wh—are _you_?”

“Yeah!” the other Shawn said, like _duh_. “Why aren't you?”

“Um, because he hates me?” Shawn said, feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach for a third time. _This_ Shawn had Lassie, was sleeping with him? Calling him his boyfriend? How the hell fair was _that_? 

“What?!” Other-Shawn put his hands up and shook his head. “Okay, nope, I don't like this world, I'm going home.”

“That'll be a neat trick, if you can do it,” Shawn said sullenly. “Maybe I'll just wake up and you can go back to ice cream dream land.”

“I fell in through the mirror, so I can just—” Other-Shawn stopped in mid-sentence as they both glanced at the full-length mirror that had been over the closet door.

Shawn realized then why he'd heard breaking glass so close to him, yet his window was still intact: the mirror was cracked in dozens of places, and he saw lines so straight they almost had to have been made deliberately. “Well, that's seven years bad luck,” he observed. His double looked at him, and Shawn slowly dropped his arms out of his defensive posture when he recognized the real fear his saw in his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend subluxate for the beta-read and editing suggestions for the rest of this story :)

Lassiter leaned against the wall in an interview room, staring across the table to the empty chair and remembering his questioning session with a business rival of a man who had supposedly killed himself, a man who had threatened the recently deceased publicly, according to several witness statements. He'd read and re-read his notes and the interview transcript, the rival's statement and the autopsy report, and something just didn't add up. He frowned in the empty room and recalled the way the other man had sat in his chair, how often he'd shifted positions, how quickly he'd answered some questions and how long he'd taken to think about others. 

It had started to storm outside, coming on fast, and all at once he could hear huge, rolling thunder, which was distracting. A bolt of lightning flashed glare-bright in one of the high windows and he turned to look, thinking that it was a wonder it hadn't hit anything. He shook his head slightly and sighed, deciding that he was probably wasting his time, and then he stood up straighter to get his folder from the table and go back upstairs. The thunder boomed again then, so loudly that it almost startled him. He glanced up at the window again and frowned, not looking forward to going out to his car in the downpour. 

As he turned back, he saw something in his peripheral vision that wasn't right. His eyes darted around the room quickly, and then he froze with a breath caught in his chest when they landed on the one-way mirror: his reflection wasn't looking back at him, or even facing him, but had his neck craned toward the window near the ceiling still. When Lassiter saw his reflection shake his head a little and then look back at him, his mouth dropped open and he took a step back. The Carlton Lassiter in the mirror saw him then and froze himself for several seconds. 

“What in the name of—” Lassiter began in a low voice, and that too caught in his throat when he thought he heard his voice coming not only from his own mouth, but from the mirror. He scowled then, and made a beeline for the door, wanting to catch whoever it was that was playing a trick on him, whoever thought it was hilarious to mess with him when he was trying to solve a case. Whoever dared to even try was going to get a big surprise when he caught—

He yanked open the door to the observation room hard, going in ready to show whoever it was that he was not an easy target, but the room was empty. He glared at the hallway, where he should have seen someone retreating if they had just been there, but it was also empty and silent. He frowned again and set his jaw, going back into the interview room more slowly. He stood in front of the one-way mirror with his hands on his hips, his eyes scanning the surface of it for a long moment before he shook his head again and relaxed slightly. He _really_ needed to get more sleep. And he would, just as soon as he'd found another lead on the probably-not-a-suicide case. God forbid Vick would decide he wasn't working fast enough and would call in Spencer, and then he would have to deal with having _him_ around again, his smart ass comments and flippant attitude and that _mouth_ , seeming to never really shut up, the smug grin he seemed to save just for Lassiter when he—

Another huge crack of thunder, this one the loudest yet. Lassiter jumped slightly and glanced back over his shoulder at the window again, and he had just started to chastise himself for being jumpy, for seeing things that weren't there, and for being unable to get _Spencer_ out of his mind, when he heard a sound—a sound like someone falling on the ground, hard. He whipped his head back around and saw two things at once, one after the other hitting him so hard that he couldn't breathe, couldn't _think_. The first was that he no longer had a reflection. The second was that, evidently, his reflection was _on the floor_. Lassiter stared, his mouth hanging open, as he himself quickly stood up several feet away, one hand curled into a fist while the other went to the handle of the Glock in his holster. His own hands mimicked the second action, but more slowly—what was he supposed to do in this particular hallucination, shoot himself? 

There was a sound like a shot to his right, and he instinctively pulled his gun after all. At the same time, the man standing next to him drew his; both stepped away from the mirror and aimed, and both saw the change simultaneously: the glass was fractured in long, straight lines in several places. Lassiter could now see his reflection—and the reflection of another Lassiter on his left, looking equally shocked—in the broken mirror. He turned and stared, not aiming his weapon at the apparition, but not putting it away, either. 

It seemed the other man had the same idea, and as he turned to face Lassiter as if they were getting ready for a duel, Lassiter saw that it _wasn't_ his reflection, not exactly: this man, while standing the exact same height, having the exact same build, and appearing to have the same face as him, was wearing a different tie, had slightly longer hair, and had apparently missed the memo that one needed to step up to the razor when shaving in the morning.

“Who the hell are you?” Lassiter—and his apparent double—said at once. They both blinked, and scowled, and tried again. “What the hell just happened?”

“Quit it!” Lassiter snapped.

“Tuna shoes!” the other man said.

Lassiter was incredibly confused at that, and hearing nonsense coming from someone that seemed to be himself, added to the mere fact of another one of himself standing three feet from him, pissed him off even more. “What the _Christ_ are you talking about?” he demanded.

The other man relaxed slightly, although his face remained wary. “So, you're not an exact mirror image of me, not like that would be possible.” He glanced at the glass again before returning his gaze to Lassiter. “You want to explain to me what the hell is going on before I arrest you and everyone you're in cahoots with?”

Lassiter narrowed his eyes. “Threaten me again and we'll see who arrests who. Now, whoever the hell you are, you have thirty seconds to explain yourself before _I_ call for backup.”

“No, _you_ have _ten_ seconds to start explaining all of this to me—starting with how the fuck you managed to steal my face.”

Lassiter glared furiously. “ _You_ tell me how you managed to steal _my_ face and why the hell you're impersonating me. What are you planning?”

The other man seemed to think for a moment, his eyes darting all over the place before he pressed his lips together. “Shawn didn't do this,” he said finally, seemingly to himself. “I would kill him.”

“Sh—Spencer?” Lassiter repeated, confused for a second before zeroing in on it— _yes_ , of course, Spencer! He would plan something like this, to try to freak him out and make him the butt of yet another stupid joke. However... the replication was almost perfect, eerily so. How was it possible?

The other man looked at him contemplatively, and then he said something that Lassiter never imagined would come out of his mouth with his own hard, absolute conviction. “If you're me,” he said, “tell me the significance of a guitar solo and a blank postcard.”

Lassiter looked at the man, telling himself over and over that it was _impossible_ , that this last meant nothing and it was still some kind of trick, a hallucination, anything except the idea that some other version of himself was standing in front of him. But how could he know, how could anyone—he had never told, not that it had mattered in the end. Still, he simply _could not_ square his living reflection falling out of the goddamn mirror and speaking his secrets to him. “If _you're_ me,” he repeated back, a little sarcastically, “tell me yourself.”

The other man's mouth tightened slightly. “I say what was on the radio, you say what picture was on the postcard.”

“You first.”

“Do you agree?” the lookalike pressed.

“Fine,” Lassiter said, trying to keep his voice even. What did, 'If you're me,' even mean? There was only one _him_ , and he was pretty damn sure he was it. 

The other man hesitated for a second, still wary. “Stranglehold,” he said in a low voice.

Lassiter felt like he had been put in one. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and then he shook his head briskly, hoping that when his thoughts stopped rattling and echoing, his hallucination would have cleared. It hadn't. What appeared to be _another_ Carlton Lassiter was still standing there, still watching him, his expression becoming more suspicious by the second. Stranglehold. Eight minutes of darkness in a car, guitars and kissing, groping, feeling things he'd never imagined and getting ready to dive in, only for it all to be dissolved with a coerced promise of silence and then a blank postcard in lieu of a goodbye.

“The Statue of Liberty,” he said, and what had struck his angry twenty-year-old self as horribly ironic at the time was now only blanched and sad. He looked at the other man in the room and saw his eyes drop away a little, and when he saw that, the old hurt on his face and knowing that he too was reliving the same memories, he couldn't completely deny it any more. That wasn't to say that he _believed_ it, exactly... but... 

“Okay,” the other Lassiter said after a long moment. “You're me. I don't know how that's possible, but I intend to find out.”

Lassiter pointed to the mirror. “Any theories as to how _that_ happened? It wasn't like that five minutes ago. You—” He stopped, unable to bring himself to say _fell through the mirror_. “What do you remember happening in the last ten minutes?”

The other man frowned. “I was here, going over my notes for an interview with a suspect,” he reported. “I thought I saw movement in the m—behind the glass, so I went into the observation room to investigate. There was no one that I could see or hear, so I came back in here to get my file and go home.” He paused, his eyes flicking over warily before his expression smoothed out into Lassiter's famous interrogation blandness, the one he used when he wanted a suspect to hang himself. “Your account?”

“Similar,” Lassiter admitted carefully, and then he stepped back and shook his head again. “I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours, and it's been sporadic since my last case. This is a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation. It's downright impossible to be talking to another _me_.”

“Brilliant assessment.” The other man rolled his eyes. “I'd be tempted to agree, actually, but I've been sleeping just fine. Other than thinking I saw what I now can say looks a hell of a lot like _you_ in the mirror earlier tonight, I've not experienced anything out of the ordinary until five minutes ago.”

“When you _fell out_ of a _mirror_?”

He glared. “When I was _pushed into_ a mirror, only to find myself on the floor in here and dealing with _you_.”

That hadn't been something he'd seen, and Lassiter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Who pushed you?”

“I don't know, I was looking at you.” The other man glanced up at the high windows and frowned. “It's not thundering anymore.”

He was right, it wasn't—but did that have any bearing on the current situation? “Are non-sequiturs a champion sport in your world, Mister Tuna Shoes?” he asked. 

He gave Lassiter an impatient, contemptuous look. “You were speaking at the exact same time as I was, saying the exact same thing I was,” he said. “That was the first thing I thought of to see if it continued.” Having explained that much, he then apparently decided to curve even further into the random. “Give me your phone,” he demanded, holding his hand out. “I left mine on the table, so I don't have it, and I need to call Shawn.”

“What? _Spencer_? Why, in god's name?” Lassiter gestured between them. “This isn't insane enough for you?”

The other man's hand dropped, and the suspicion on his face returned. “Spencer,” he repeated slowly. “You don't call him Shawn.”

Lassiter was now indignant. “Why should I? I'd prefer to call him _never_ , but the chief still buys his bullshit at least once a week, it seems like. Why do _you_ bother?”

The other man didn't reply; instead, he stepped closer to the mirror, pulled a pen from inside his jacket, and gently tapped the mirror. The pen didn't go through or anything absurd like that, and his frown deepened. “We need to get out of here,” he said slowly. “It doesn't seem like we're going to know what the hell is going on within the next five minutes, and I somehow doubt anyone coming along and seeing two of me is going to simply take it in stride.”

That was a good enough point. Lassiter slowly reholstered his gun, and when the other man saw him, he did the same. Lassiter opened his mouth to suggest he just go home and get a good night's sleep, trying hard to believe that when he woke he could come in to work in the morning and there would be no sign of some not-quite replica of himself standing around, nor the broken one-way glass in Interview Room A, when his phone rang. He huffed in annoyance and pulled it out, not missing the way the other man's eyes fixed on it. He looked at the display before flipping it open and then almost dropped it: _Spencer_. He blinked at the phone and then glanced up before slowly pressing two buttons: one to answer, one for speaker. 

“Hello?” he said cautiously.

“Hey, Lassie!” the voice on the other end sounded harried and nervous, and Lassiter also did not miss the way the other version of himself reacted to it—his eyes widened slightly and he stepped closer, staring at the phone with—what? Concern? “Um, I have—kind of a situation? Something way fucked up happened, I don't even know how to—just, look, I need some urgent, like, police assistance, okay? I swear I'm not kidding, I need— _please_ , can you come?”

“Just _you_!” Spencer continued—although his voice suddenly sounded slightly different. 

Lassiter frowned, trying to pick out what it was—it was just two words, and they were coming from a cell phone that was on its speaker, but he could have sworn he heard something. Was it that the last two words had been spoken slower, softer than the rest, which was delivered in almost one anxious breath? He opened his mouth to reply, but it seemed that the other man had heard the difference as well, and responded to it.

“It's okay, Shawn,” he said, his voice strong and reassuring. “I'm coming.”

Lassiter glanced at him now, but he was still focused on the phone. There was a pause, and then they heard a quiet, “What?” Spencer, confused. 

A second later, Spencer again, much calmer, his voice warm and relieved. “Carlton,” he said. 

_What?_

“Fifteen minutes,” the other man promised, and snatched the phone out of Lassiter's hand to flip it closed. When he looked at Lassiter again, his gaze was hard and his jaw was set. “We go to him _now_ ,” he said.

“...What?” he managed. _Shawn? Carlton?_

The other Lassiter rolled his eyes. “I can't do this with you right now,” he snapped. “Whatever the Christ happened, we'll figure it out, but as of this moment, that is Priority _Two_.” He suddenly glanced up at the ceiling and pointed. “Hey, what's that?”

Lassiter looked up, frowning, and then he curled his hand into a fist when he felt a very solid hallucination reach forward and lift his car keys as deftly as a pickpocket, something he'd tried to practice off and on as a kid, but had never pursued as an officer. Getting into those habits had cost many good detectives entire cases when they relied on them and failed to get proper warrants for searches and evidence. “The hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded. “You hand them over this second or we're going to have a problem.”

“Newsflash: this _is_ a problem.” The other man gave him another second of his own glare, and then he started walking out of the room. “Car, two minutes,” he said. “If you're not there, I'm leaving without you.”

Lassiter took three quick steps after him and grabbed his elbow. “The hell you are,” he said. “If we're leaving, _I'm_ going first.”

The other Lassiter shook him off, and hard—so vigorously that Lassiter almost lost his footing and fell over. “No. I don't trust you to not leave me here, or to actually go see what's wrong with Shawn.”

“Spencer?” Lassiter rolled his eyes. “He probably thinks the Boogey Man is out to get him. But I'm a cop, all right, I don't deliberately ignore civilians in distress, especially when they call me directly and ask for police assistance. Spencer's fucking annoying, but why would you just assume I wouldn't help him if he really needed it?”

“Two minutes,” the other man snapped. He did an about-face and zipped down the hall before quick-stepping the staircase to the main floor. Lassiter held himself back for twenty seconds, not wanting anyone still around upstairs to actually see two of him (although the corroborating witness statement to his own delirium would at least give him an indication either way of what he was actually seeing, or not seeing). Then he thought of the number of times his double had said _Shawn_ , and then he made for the parking lot.


	4. Chapter 4

Shawn watched the mirror image of himself carefully as he half-heartedly poked around in the refrigerator for a few minutes; then he just swung the door closed, looking disappointed. “Do you have anything here to drink?” he asked.

“You just went past the Capri Sun pouches twice,” Shawn told him. “It should say something about how much I'm reeling at all of this that I'm willing to let you have one.”

Other-Shawn started to shake his head, stopped to reconsider, and then he nodded and grabbed two. He tossed the other one to Shawn, who caught it but didn't insert the straw. “Piña Mango, hell yeah, boy!” he said. “Now I just need something to put in it. Don't get me wrong, this is a swell pick-me-up on a night when you somehow slip into an alternate dimension, but due to said dimension-hopping I'm pretty sure I'm going to need a serious _drink_.”

“Oh.” That wasn't a bad idea and could help soften the explosion when Lassiter (and Other-Lassiter, if Other-Shawn was right) arrived. “There's vodka in the freezer.”

The other Shawn nodded and pulled out the bottle, glanced around the tiny kitchen once before going immediately to the cupboard where the glasses were kept, and returned to the table with a plastic tumbler that had Iron Man on it and a coffee mug that declared that the person drinking from it had gotten boned at the dinosaur museum. He sat down, looked at both, then slid the Iron Man glass over before piercing his Capri Sun pouch and squirting about half of it into the mug. He added vodka while Shawn poured his own juice drink into Iron Man, and then he tossed back almost all of it in one huge gulp while Shawn spiked his own drink.

Other-Shawn smacked his lips while filling his mug up with the rest of his Capri Sun and more vodka, and then he glanced around again. “Hey, I don't suppose you have any good scotch?” he asked. “I know you don't like it, because I don't, but on the off-chance? Or maybe you do like it?”

Shawn made a face. “Don't be ridiculous, that stuff tastes like gasoline fermented in a barrel. Why would I keep it around? And why do you want it? Is my world so bad you're thinking of subjecting yourself to that stuff already?”

“Nah—er, well, I have no idea yet, actually.” The other Shawn frowned. “I mean, you get a big checkmark in the 'cons' side of the chart for not being with Carlton. He's why I was asking about the scotch, too—he doesn't drink vodka, and he's going to want something.”

“Okay, you have to stop calling him that,” Shawn said. “It's freaking me out. His name is Sassy Lassie, or, failing that, Mr. Bean's cantankerous brother, Mr. Mean.”

Other-Shawn snorted. “No, actually, he hated it when I called him 'Lassie'. We made a deal—I use his name, he uses my name. You should've seen what happened the last time I called him Bony Randall.”

“...What happened?”

He grinned. “I got _boned_.”

Shawn shook his head briskly and put a hand up. “Nope, don't believe you,” he decided. “You're too far out of the realm of possibility. You could have said anything—my parents never got divorced, it's customary to give kindergartners their own dragons on the first day of school, in Rand McNally people wear shoes on their hands and hamburgers eat people—but claiming that Carlton Lassiter is in a relationship with me—with _you_? Uh-uh, Jack. I call bullshit.”

“More bullshit than me coming through your mirror and sitting here talking to you?”

“Maybe you're not real.”

The other Shawn leaned forward and pinched Shawn's arm really hard. When he yelped and drew back, Other-Shawn smirked, satisfied. “Ha! I must be pretty real to be able to do that. Maybe _you're_ not real—I buy that a lot more than falling through a mirror into some sad, flat existence where I'm reduced to jacking off at night because I'm all alone.”

“How d—” Shawn stopped, suddenly realizing how annoying it really was when he told people things they thought he couldn't know. This mirror-man had obviously seen the balled-up shirt near the hamper, heard Shawn's surprise and longing when he'd told him he was with Lassie, and made the deductions. Irritating. “Whatever, I was having a really good dream,” he scoffed, and then he paused. “About... um, Lassie, actually.” He glanced at his double, who had the nerve to look amused at that. “You're not fucking with me?” he asked. “You and him are really—?”

“It's that hard to believe?” Other-Shawn asked, his eyebrows raised. “Have you not, like, been super into him from the day you met him?”

“No, I totally have,” Shawn agreed. It was beyond weird to discuss his feelings about Lassie with _himself_ , but realistically his other self was probably the only one that would get it, or that would talk about it. Gus knew, but refused to discuss Shawn's feelings, which he insisted were of the 'you only want what you can't have' variety, and he started throwing things if Shawn tried to get him to participate in a brainstorming session regarding ways to get Lassie interested. “But he hasn't been into me—he gets pissed off from the second I show up, and he'd like nothing more than to arrest me.”

“Well, the handcuff part I'll concede,” Other-Shawn said, and grinned. “But no, man, I'm not fucking with you. It's been almost a year, and with both of our romantic histories, and the fact that we're us, that's like, what, five years in normal-people time? He actually asked me to move in with him two months ago, and I actually said yes, and it's still working. It's not always perfectly smooth sailing, you know—one or both of us has gotta rock the boat every now and then or we just wouldn't still be ourselves—but it's going good enough that we're both happy and not planning on changing anything for the time being.” He frowned. “Unless whatever _this_ is fucks things up. That would be just my luck—go through a mirror into another dimension, which is totally dope and if we don't play some tricks on Gus I'm going to change into some jammies and power-sulk through all four Karate Kid movies—but then either I never get home and back to him, or he's here too but can't handle staying here and we break up.”

“How did it even happen?” Shawn asked, awed. He thought back to one year ago, but couldn't remember anything specific that seemed like a definite way in that he'd missed. Maybe Lassie had actually initiated it? _As if_.

Shawn's double had been drinking the remainder of his Capri Smirnoff, and when he was finished he set the mug down and licked his lips. He started to say something, but then he stopped as they both heard a car screech to the curb. “They're here,” he said. “We'll have to have our girl talk later, buddy. If we can't figure out how to get us back, that is.”

Shawn made a face at 'girl talk', but then he refocused on the last part of what Other-Shawn had said. “You really think _your_ Lassie got—got pulled through when you did?” he asked.

The other Shawn had stood up and gone to the doorway, waiting for Shawn to get up too, and he nodded, completely sure in himself. “I know what it sounds like when he says my name. That was him on the phone.” He paused. “Besides, if he really still doesn't like you here, as much as you said, and you still call him 'Lassie', doesn't he still just call you 'Spencer'?”

“Yeah.” Shawn shrugged.

Other-Shawn gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, I mean, that's how it was for me too, at least at first? Maybe it's still coming, man. Maybe he just needs more time here—like I said, he didn't like me at first either, and it was over a year that we knew each other before anything happened.”

“Maybe he's just straight here,” Shawn muttered. He'd gone back and forth over whether or not he thought Lassie was into guys, but talking to this other Shawn about being with another Lassiter, he wondered if the difference was that that version of Lassie was actually capable of being interested in him, whereas the one he knew wasn't. 

“Maybe,” Other-Shawn said, though he looked doubtful. “I guess we don't really know what's going on here.”

There was a pounding at the door, and they both headed for it, although they only made it halfway across the living room before someone tried the knob and burst in—Lassie, looking exhausted and pale but tense and distracted. “Spencer, what—” Then he stopped short as he saw both Shawns, and his mouth dropped open for a second as his eyes darted between them, and then he threw his hands up in the air. “Great!” he said. “Not that I don't have enough of my own insanity to deal with, but now there are two of _you_?”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun?” Shawn suggested. He'd been trying for nonchalance, but when the other Shawn looked at him and smirked, he couldn't help but to mentally cross his fingers and decide he'd been very serious. 

“That's not funny!” Lassiter snapped angrily. Shawn saw his double lose his grin, standing up straighter and considering Lassie warily. “You want to tell me what in the _hell_ is going on here, Spencer?”

“I would if I knew!” Shawn said, and pointed at Other-Shawn. “Ask him, he came out of the mirror!”

“No, I didn't, I went _into_ the mirror!” Other-Shawn insisted.

“We're a mirror world,” Shawn told Lassie. “Isn't that hella cool? I bet the other you is a Democrat.”

Other-Shawn gasped and laid a hand over his chest. “Bite your tongue!”

“Oh my god,” Lassiter said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm dead and this is hell.”

“You'll be dead the next time you try to grab my gun while I'm driving,” snarled another Lassiter-voice, and then Mirror-Shawn was proved right as _another Lassie_ came into his apartment from the hallway and slammed the door behind him. He looked slightly different than this-world-Lassie, as the other Shawn looked a little different than Shawn himself, but the furious glare on his face was all too familiar. “Next time it _might_ just discharge all on its own.”

“Oh, shut it,” Lassie said, rolling his eyes. “I needed to get up here first, and we have bigger problems than that pathetic pea-shooter you're carrying.” He pointed into the room, and Shawn found himself standing up straighter as this other Lassie—the one Other-Shawn claimed was actually his boyfriend—looked them both over. 

“Pick a Shawn, any Shawn,” Other-Shawn said lightly. 

“Right,” Other-Lassie said. His eyes had flicked over Other-Shawn quickly, but then he studied Shawn carefully, suspiciously, for a long moment before slowly walking over to Other-Shawn, who clasped his hands behind his back and smiled up at him. The other Lassiter stopped in front of him, but very close. “You're okay?” he asked softly. 

“I am now,” Other-Shawn said. “I have no idea what happened, and it's a little freaky and I have to admit I'm a skosh concerned, but if you're here too I'm randy-dandy.”

Shawn saw the corner of Other-Lassie mouth quick up slightly, and he barely realized that he was hardly breathing; his wanting Lassiter had been such a constant thing for months on end, an impossibility he had come to be almost certain was forever going to be one-sided, that he'd gotten so used to the other man scowling or glaring at him he'd almost forgotten the few and far between small smiles he'd received as well. Each time Lassie had almost smiled at him—and meant it, versus the sarcastic ones that were simply his mouth moving and didn't reach his eyes—he'd been reminded of how badly he wanted to see that look constantly, and he felt a sharp tug in his guts when he realized that this other Shawn had that. Had him. 

“It's 'handy-dandy',” Other-Lassie said, and Shawn knew what the next lines were before they were out.

“I've heard it both ways,” Other-Shawn said unconcernedly. “Besides, I'm much more randy than handy.”

“Nobody cares,” Lassie said sharply, and then he shot a look at Shawn, as if he'd been the one that had spoken. “I think what's more pressing right now is to figure out how in the hell you two are here, and why, and how to get you back or otherwise get rid of you somehow.”

“If we came through the mirror, we should have to go back through the mirror,” Other-Shawn said. “But the one I came through is all broken.” He looked questioningly at Other-Lassiter. “Same?”

Other-Lassie nodded, frowning. “I was shoved through at the PD in one of the interview rooms, and the glass is broken now.”

“I wonder if they're broken on the other side too,” Shawn mused.

“What does that matter?” Lassiter asked. “If anyone could get back to wherever that is to find out, this conversation would be pointless.” He shook his head. “This is already pointless, and downright absurd. I'm exhausted, I need to get some sleep, and I expect that when I wake up, this looney-brigade will have been nothing but a sleep-deprived hallucination.”

“Do you usually hallucinate about a double of me and you knocking boots?” Shawn asked innocently.

Lassiter looked at him sharply. “What?”

“I can't pull off boots,” Other-Shawn said. “But I can rock the bunny slippers like no one's bidness.”

“Shut it,” Lassiter snapped at him, and then he resumed glaring at Shawn. “What did you just say?”

“Don't tell him to shut it,” Lassie's double said. “If he needs to close his trap, _I'll_ tell him to shut it.”

“Yeah!” Other-Shawn crowed. Other-Lassiter gave him a look and he subsided, but he was smiling still.

Shawn pointed at his own double. “He says that him and _his_ Lassie over there are together. They're totally doing the no-pants dance in the nighttime.”

“And sometimes during the daytime it's playtime,” Other-Shawn added.

“Shut it, Shawn,” Other-Lassiter said, but his voice was low as he watched Lassiter warily. 

Lassiter started to roll his eyes, and then he glanced at his mirror-twin and froze, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He looked between Other-Lassiter and Other-Shawn several times, and then a look of horrified realization came over his face. “Oh my _god_ ,” he nearly spat. “You're _not_ serious.”

“Almost never,” Other-Shawn agreed. “But this time I am.” He looked at his boyfriend. “They're not a thing here.”

“I noticed,” Other-Lassiter said dryly.

“They're totally weirded out by our forbidden love. I don't like this world. First one home has a rotten leg.”

“Yeah, _that's_ the only reason to figure out what the hell happened and how to get back.”

“Are you saying it's true?” Lassiter demanded, looking incredulously at his other self, who glared back at him. “You're in a relationship with _him_?”

“So what if I am?” Other-Lassiter shot back, folding his arms across his chest. “I don't give a shit if you're supposed to be some sort of alter-ego of me or not—if you're going to have issues I'd be glad to help you sort them out.”

Shawn had, of course, heard of some guys being conflicted with themselves about their attraction to other guys, but this was ridiculous. Lassiter gave him such a venomous look at that point that he actually took a step back. “Why are you mad at _me_?” he asked, indignant. “I didn't say it! And I haven't left my own little universe here or done any mirror-hopping. If they're from another world, then that's entirely separate from ours. I'm not secretly dating you, I promise.”

“And really—like _that_ would be the strangest part of all of this?” Other-Shawn added. 

Lassiter shook his head disgustedly and then he threw his hands in the air. “Whatever!” he said. “Why not have everything be from Opposite Land, then. _Are_ you a Democrat?” he asked his double.

“I _do_ have morals,” Other-Lassiter snapped, looking disgusted himself. “Any version of me that's a _liberal_ better not cross my path.”

Lassiter nodded, looking slightly mollified. “Fine. Good.”

There was an awkward silence, during which he and Other-Lassiter watched each other suspiciously and Shawn looked between the other three people in his living room. Other-Shawn yawned loudly. “What time is it?” he asked.

Other-Lassiter grudgingly took his eyes off his double and glanced at his watch. “It's almost two.” He looked at Other-Shawn and frowned. “Were you asleep yet? I was just getting ready to come home.”

“He was almost getting his face bashed in by a wayward tree branch,” Shawn said. “That's what I saw in the mirror before he came through it.”

Other-Shawn nodded. “I was getting ready to lie down, but this Wizard of Oz-level storm popped up out of nowhere, and when the Shawn in the mirror started singing at me, I thought I wasn't in Kansas anymore.”

“Hey, you sang at me too,” Shawn said. “I must've been the only one asleep, then, so that can't have anything to do with it.”

“Well, it's late, and I somehow doubt this is going to be cleared up in the immediate future,” Other-Lassiter said. “We should all get some sleep and figure out what to do in the morning.”

“Sleep where?” Other-Shawn asked, eyebrows raised. “We don't have our place here.”

“You can sleep on the couch,” Shawn offered, pointing at it. “It pulls out. It's not the greatest, but.” He shrugged.

“Cool, thanks.” He looked pleased and grinned at Other-Lassiter. “I call the inside. You sleep on the outside and you can stretch out if you hang your feet over the side.”

“Fine.” Other-Lassiter looked tired, and he turned his back on Lassiter, seeming to dismiss him and the rest of his fucked-up day. He went over to the couch and sat down on it, raising one foot to begin untying his shoes.

Other-Shawn turned to Shawn. “Can we snag a blanket or something, if you have an extra one?”

“Oh, uh, sure. Just one?”

Other-Shawn smiled again. “We'll share.” 

Shawn went quickly into his bedroom, untangled the top blanket from his pile, and came back into the living room with it. He handed it over to his own mirror-twin, who grinned at him in thanks before nudging Other-Lassiter's shoes to the side of the sofa with his foot. 

Lassiter shook his head briskly and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, and Shawn recognized the gesture—he was getting or already had a headache. “If all of you are snug and cozy here, I guess I'll just head home,” Lassiter said flatly. “I'll be back here at seven-thirty to discuss this—this—” He flapped a hand at the two on and near the sofa before seeming to give up and roll his eyes again. “Be awake, all of you—I want whatever the hell happened here reversed before I go in to work.”

“How are we going to do that in an hour?” Shawn asked. “We don't even know what happened. It must have been _magic_. Like, serious magic. And then how are we even going to know what kind, or who caused it, or how to reverse it?”

“Oh, Jiminy Christmas, you and your psychic _magic_ ,” Lassiter sneered. “If this is real, then whatever caused it has a logical explanation. There is _no_ magic.”

“Tell that to them!” Shawn said, flinging a hand toward the spare Shawn and Lassie. “Is it logical that they're here? No. Is it a natural occurrence that they came _through_ the mirrors? No! _Magic_.”

“I'm hearing a very good case for magic,” Other-Shawn said. 

Lassiter glared at Other-Lassiter, who was carefully loosening the knot in his tie to take it off. “Seriously?” he asked in a low voice. “ _Him_? Just tell me how you can justify being with someone who's nothing but a manipulative fraud, a liar?”

Shawn felt his stomach sink a little at that, but he sighed nosily and rolled his eyes. He glanced at the other Shawn, intending to exchange a long-suffering look with him, but then he stopped when he saw realization in his double's eyes. 

“Ohhh,” he said softly. “I get it now.”

Shawn frowned at him and shook his head a little in confusion, but he didn't have a chance to catch his eye or say anything before the other Lassie snorted. “How do I _justify_ it?” he repeated. “Easy. He _doesn't_ lie to _me_.” 

“And you believe that?” Lassiter asked. “Is he not pretending to be a 'psychic' in your world?” He put his fingers to his forehead sarcastically. 

“The _psychic_ thing—? Oh, you actually believe that?” Other-Lassiter put a hand over his chest mockingly. “Is that adorable? I can't quite tell.”

Shawn desperately tried to catch the other Shawn's eye the second before he knew what was coming, but Other-Shawn was watching both Lassiters, holding the blanket in his arms and fidgeting with a fold of fabric. “No, I _don't_ believe it,” Lassiter snarled. “That's _his_ story, the only one he sticks to.” Then his face changed and he looked at both Shawns, his eyes darting between them before he suddenly jabbed a finger at Other-Shawn. “ _That_ one told you!” he said. “He admitted he's not psychic, and told you how he does it. Didn't he? If he ' _doesn't lie_ ' to you? Tell me!”

Lassie gave Shawn a look that was part venom and part victory, but Shawn barely saw it as Other-Shawn finally looked at him, his eyebrows raised. Shawn's heart was in his throat and his stomach felt hollow and frozen; he knew his eyes were wide and pleading, but he couldn't help it. If his double really had told his version of Lassie the truth, and that was how they were together—and that other Lassie was fine with it, and still wanted to be with him despite the lies—then that might explain a lot. 

However, it was becoming more and more clear that there was literally a world of difference between the two Lassiters, and the one Shawn had known for years was definitely more likely to arrest him than to kiss him. If there was ever a time for him to actually find out the truth, _now_ was not that time. He glanced at the other Lassie, who had started to smirk in a way that said he knew something someone else didn't and he wanted to rub it in their face. He looked at the other Shawn again and tried with all his might to send him a telepathic thought: _Help me!_


	5. Chapter 5

Lassiter was barely tired at all now—his mind felt sharp and active, the bright clarity he sometimes felt in the moments before breaking a big case wide open. He had to know. That was the only possible way the two of them could ever work in any sort of scenario, and if they were far enough along in their _relationship_ to be calling it that, for the other version of himself to have been both protective and defensive about _Shawn Smartass Spencer_ , he had to know the truth about him. He stared into his own face, saw his own mouth start to grin—he knew the answer, had solved the case, and would now get his credit, and sure! It was due!—and then there was movement next to him, the other Spencer dropping the comforter he was holding onto the other end of the couch. 

The other Lassiter glanced up at him as he moved in front of him, and Spencer #2 didn't hesitate—he simply continued moving forward and slid onto his lap, facing him and straddling him. Lassiter's mouth dropped open in surprise when the other version of himself took that in stride, putting his hands on the other Spencer's hips automatically and looking up at him with his eyebrows slightly raised. Spencer #2 put one hand on the other Lassiter's shoulder and one hand flat on his chest, looking down at him solemnly. 

“Please don't, okay?” he asked quietly. 

The other Lassiter glanced at Spencer #1, who had looked terrified a moment ago and now was also goggling at the two on the sofa, before his eyes flicked back to the one on his lap. “Why not?” he asked. “I don't like it when you lie to me, Shawn.”

“I know,” Spencer #2 said, his voice soft and soothing. “And I don't—you know I don't. I told you the truth about all of that because I trusted you. This isn't our world, and they're not us.” He smiled a little. “My evil twin would tell your evil twin if he thought he could. Let's let them get there, huh?”

Lassiter frowned—who the hell was this apparition calling _evil_? And what did he mean, 'let them get there'? If he was talking about Lassiter and _Spencer_ , they weren't going to get anywhere, especially not together, not ever. Whatever went on in _their_ world, he'd been right about one thing: this one wasn't theirs, and no matter the resemblance, the other two were not them. If the man that looked like him (and, to be fair, seemed to behave and think like him, to have at least some of his own memories, despite his indiscretion when it came to dating conmen) wanted to waste his time, that was his own lookout.

The man that looked like him seemed to be taking the other Spencer seriously, however—he looked up at him for a long moment, clearly debating, and then his eyes slid over to Lassiter himself, and they no longer looked amused or even professional, like he knew he did when reporting how he came to solve a crime. Instead, they looked closed off, considering. “You want to know how he knows things,” he said. “How he solves cases, how it is he makes such impressive deductive leaps.”

“He told you,” Lassiter said slowly. “And it had nothing to do with _magic_ or psychic ability.”

The other Lassiter smirked then. “He's Sherlock Holmes.”

“Excuse me,” Lassiter said, feeling pissed off again. 

Spencer #2 looked over his shoulder at him and grinned. “It's true,” he said. “Gus is my Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes, like _magical spirits_ , is not real!”

“Then figure it out, _Detective_ ,” the other Lassiter said sarcastically. “You know, you probably would have already if you'd only pay a little more attention to him and give him a little more credit.”

“He doesn't deserve any,” Lassiter said, and shot a glare at Spencer #1. That one looked wounded for just a second—a look Lassiter had seen on him before a few times, always when Lassiter had flat out refused to give him one inch of leeway, which he wouldn't, and shouldn't have to, not with the way he carried on—and then he shrugged and turned his hands up.

“Your mind is closed to the wonders of the universe,” he said, as if that explained anything at all. He paused, and then nodded his head slightly at the two on the couch. “I mean, c'mon Lassie—them being right there proves the theory of parallel universes. You can't _ever_ give me the benefit of the doubt, even after this?”

“No,” he said flatly. “Not about that. And both of _them_ more or less confirmed that I'm right and you're lying, so don't give me that bullshit and expect that anything's changed.”

Spencer sighed, glanced at the other Lassiter, who was frowning at him, and dropped his eyes to the floor. Spencer #2 then put the hand that had been the other Lassiter's shoulder on his cheek, turned his face toward him, leaned down, and kissed him. Lassiter nearly flinched at the shock of seeing it, and although the kiss was very brief, he felt something in his midsection go shaky with the visual confirmation that any version of himself was perfectly comfortable with Shawn Spencer in his lap, that he, in any world or any universe, could kiss him back and then look up at him and smile.

“Um,” Spencer #1 said, and when Lassiter glanced at him he saw that he was staring at the other two, although he looked a little confused. “I guess—I'm going to go to bed too? That's—do you guys think you can get the bed pulled out?”

“Never fear, Mirror-Me,” Spencer #2 said cheerfully. “We're _great_ at pulling out. Ahh!” he shouted, as the other Lassiter suddenly hooked both hands underneath his legs and lifted upward sharply, dropping him onto the floor. 

Lassiter actually approved of that, but he didn't want to give the entirely too smug version of himself the satisfaction, so he just rolled his eyes and turned for the door. “Seven-thirty,” he said loudly, over his shoulder. “For all we know, these two will be back where they belong—if that's actually anywhere—when we wake up. Otherwise, no, I _don't_ expect we can get this cleared up in an hour, but if there's any way at all, we're going to find it.” 

He turned around for a moment when he reached the door, giving each one of them a stern look, although only Spencer #1 seemed to take notice of him, watching him carefully and then nodding while the other Lassiter stood up and offered his hand to Spencer #2 and helped him to his feet. Spencer #2 smiled and pulled himself up, and—just for a bare instant, a sliver of a moment, Lassiter got a picture of himself (his _real_ self, not the lookalike that needed a shave and was actually kind of a smartass) looking down at him, looking into those bright hazel eyes and seeing him smile, and then bending his neck and kissing him. 

He blinked a couple of times rapidly to clear his head, and found himself looking at Spencer again, but _he_ wasn't smiling. Lassiter couldn't tell what the look on his face was, but it didn't matter—in a second, it was gone, and he was turning away, toward his bedroom. Lassiter turned away, too, to get out of this apartment and this insanity, this impossibility. 

He drove home fast and went directly to his bed, but although he was so tired that his body ached, his thoughts swam until he felt as if he would drown in them. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, but he could still see a double of himself falling out of a mirror and into his world, he could still hear Spencer's voice on the phone saying “ _Carlton_ ”, and he could still feel the dive his stomach had made when the Spencer and Lassiter from another universe had kissed and held on to each other, as if that was the only thing that mattered.


	6. Chapter 6

Shawn couldn't sleep. He tried to, he really did, but he was too wired, too shocked, too freaked. He laid in his bed for hours, at first slightly terrified that he would hear the creaky pull-out sofa bed start to rock and roll, but after some initial shifting around—clear sounds of the other two just getting settled—his apartment was quiet. His mind refused to turn off, showing him again and again everything he'd seen from the moment he'd come back from the bathroom and saw a different room—and a different Shawn—reflected in his mirror, to the utterly appalled look on Lassie's face when the other Shawn kissed the other Lassie and, instead of getting a punch in the face, he was kissed back. 

Shawn had never in his life wanted so much to be just a different version of himself in a slightly different world—one where he wasn't trapped into sticking with his story instead of exposing himself, and Gus, and his father, and possibly putting in jeopardy all of the arrests and convictions that had come from his consultations to the police department. He'd never thought it could go on this long, and most of the time it didn't bother him, not with how much fun it was and how much good he did, how well he was actually able to work what he'd been born with and how much his dad had taught him. Most times, when the reminder that the facade actually couldn't go on forever cropped up, he would brush it aside and think about something that kept his spirits high, but sometimes, he wondered what would really happen. Clearly, the other Shawn had come clean, had made it work for him—Shawn was really going to have to ask him how it had happened, how he'd avoided getting arrested and had gotten himself into an actual relationship with Lassie instead. If they could figure out how they'd gotten here, and how to get them back, he might not ever know, but his gut told him that something majorly Twilight Zone was going on, and that shit was actually rarely solved in one hour (minus commercials). 

When it had been light for a while, Shawn got up and quietly headed for the bathroom, stopping to poke his head into the living room, only meaning to glimpse the digital clock on his cable box. He saw two things: one was that it was almost seven o'clock, so he had plenty of time for a shower. The other was that Lassie was wrong—their doppelgangers hadn't disappeared into the mist overnight; they were still very much there, scrunched together on the short pull-out sofa bed. They were asleep and looked very cozy indeed, so cozy that Shawn felt a spark of jealousy at the way the other Shawn was snuggled into Other-Lassie's side, sleeping with his head on one of his shoulders and one arm curled onto his chest while one of Other-Lassiter's arms held him around the back and his other hand rested on his outstretched arm. Cuddly bastards.

He showered quickly and dressed in his room, and then he put together a second set of clothes for Other-Shawn. He debated whether or not to extend the same favor to Other-Lassie, but he very much doubted he had anything that would fit the other man. Maybe Lassie would get generous and donate some threads to the cause, but that was probably overreaching. Shawn went into the living room, stopping when he saw Other-Lassie sitting up against the back of the sofa in his undershirt, frowning and looking around. 

“Uh, hi,” Shawn said tentatively. 

The other Lassie looked at him, frowned more deeply, glanced at the Shawn who was still asleep next to him, and sat up straighter. “Still here,” he said carefully, just in case Shawn forgot what had happened, or woke up thinking that the clones were attacking. “What time is it?”

Shawn nodded at the cable box under his TV. “Seven twenty-one.”

Other-Lassie eyed the pile of clothes in Shawn's arms. “Those for him?” he asked. “I assume you don't have anything that would fit me.”

“Yeah, sorry.” As much as he would have liked to have an extra set of Lassie's clothes just hanging around his apartment should the other man need to freshen up, that had never seemed so far from an option. 

Shawn watched as Other-Lassie laid a hand on Other-Shawn's shoulder and shook him gently. Other-Shawn mumbled something and tried to shove his face underneath the throw pillow he'd been sleeping with, and Other-Lassie calmly took it from him and pulled the blanket entirely off of him him in order to wake him up. Other-Shawn opened one eye to give his boyfriend a pseudo-glare, and Shawn thought two things: one was that it really was annoying to have to try to wake him up sometimes. Huh. He guessed Gus got two points on that one. The second was that he was fairly dying to know how these two had gotten together, and how they'd made it work to the point that Other-Shawn now attempted to bury his face in Other-Lassiter's side to escape the bright light of morning, and Other-Lassiter just smiled a little and lightly ran a finger behind his ear. Other-Shawn squirmed and hunched his shoulders, attempting to both stay hidden and to ward off the wake-up war.

Other-Lassie then petted his head a little and said, in a low but firm voice, “Come on, Shawn—up.”

Other-Shawn groaned but sat up, his slightly harried and still sleepy look disappearing at once the second his eyes fell on Shawn; he recoiled and let out a cry, holding both hands up in front of his face. “No!” he said. “I thought I had a freak-fest dream about seeing myself when my hair looked like that! I don't like this game! Quit without saving!”

“Hey!” Shawn said, drawing himself up and then holding up the shirt he'd brought out. “I was going to let you wear my ThunderCats shirt, man. One more word and I'll break out the Boy Scouts one Jules made me buy for her nephews' fundraiser, and that's just going to look weird. Orange is most definitely not your color.”

Other-Shawn lowered his hands and considered the threat. “I concede the point, although that's also my ThunderCats shirt.” He accepted the clothes and looked pleased at the inclusion of shorts and a ball of socks. “Thanks, Evil Twin. Hey, do you have anything Carlton can wear?”

“Not unless he wants to look like a stripper getting ready to shuck the skintight breakaway outfit.”

Other-Shawn gave Other-Lassie a considering look, and started to grin, but the other Lassie just rolled his eyes and turned to put his feet on the floor. “No,” he said. “I'll figure something else out while we're stuck here.”

“Maybe Lassie can bring you some of his,” Shawn suggested, although _fat chance_ rose to mind immediately after. 

Sure enough, when Lassiter showed up, he was in such an ungenerous mood that he hadn't even brought everyone coffee and donuts, although Shawn knew of at least twenty places for such items he would have passed on the way over. He was shaved now but had clearly done too quick of a job of it and still looked grizzled, his throat a little red from the razor. His eyes were also a little haggard, and when Shawn opened the door to let him in, he looked past his shoulder, saw their doppelgangers both sitting on the sofa, and winced, starting to rub at his forehead already. 

“Great, they're still here,” he muttered. “So much for that idea.”

“Lassie, come on in,” Shawn said, standing aside and making a little bow. “Welcome to the wonderful world of mirror men; after breakfast, we're all going to come up with synchronized dances and go make drunk people think they're seeing quadruple.”

“Shut it, Spencer,” Lassiter snapped as he entered and Shawn closed the door behind him. “I have absolutely no patience for your twaddle today.”

“Is a twaddle like a tweak?” Other-Shawn asked.

“Is a tattle like a sneak?” Shawn countered. 

“I could just leave,” Lassiter threatened, glaring at both of them. “Leave all of you to figure this out—I have nothing to do with whatever caused it, and I have work to do at the station.”

“So do I, but apparently I'm stuck here,” Other-Lassie said. 

“Why don't you consult the _spirits_ , Spencer?” Lassiter asked, making sarcastic air quotes. “Use your _psychic magic_ to find out what the hell happened and how to get them back.”

“Um...” Shawn said, while Admiral Ackbar shouted in his head that it was a trap. Besides, he was now seriously uncertain when it came to his previous beliefs that magic didn't actually exist—if these two were here, didn't it just about _have_ to, in some incarnation or another? So psychic magic probably _was_ out there; unfortunately, however, he didn't have it. “I guess the first step would be... to figure out what the similarities in our experiences are, and if there are any big differences, and then... talk to some other psychics and dealers of the mystic to... find out if they know anything.” It was lame, and although he did plan to stop by some shops specializing in magick-with-a-k as soon as he could, his proposed plan was more logical and real-detectivey than he normally would have let on around Lassie or basically anyone that wasn't Gus or his dad.

“I like it,” Other-Shawn said. “Here's my account: It was a dark and stormy night. Fiddleston, the butler, had just turned in for the night, so 'twas myself and the ghost of the manor, R. Hanksworth Ackleberry, left to our nefarious devices. Now, Ackleberry was normally the most supine of companions, but when the thunder scared the ghoul-pee out of him, I sent him straight away and was left with the lingering smell of spectral urine. Upon my discovery that Resolve doesn't clean the carpets when your soul has devolved, I retired to my chambers where—much to my consternation—I was met with a startling figure from my past: the ghost of the good Lady Beulah Mae Diddlesworthingshire, come to evoke her long-standing threat of a haunted poo or two. 'Alas!' I shouted, twiddling my eyebrows, 'if only I'd changed the spirit litter box!'“

“Stop!” Lassie said, rolling his eyes and holding up a hand. Other-Shawn stopped talking but exchanged a smirk with Shawn, who had been enjoying the tale, while Other-Lassie frowned slightly, his eyes far off. “For the love of— _you_ don't care that he just sits there and babbles like a broken Edgar Wallace Plot Wheel?” Lassiter demanded, giving his double an exasperated look.

“Hmm?” Other-Lassie glanced at him, and then at Other-Shawn, who grinned at him. “Oh. I wasn't listening. Did you say you fell through the mirror?”

Other-Shawn nodded. “I was backing up from the window in our bedroom breaking, from the glass zooming in at cut-rate speed, and I sort of tripped over the frame and fell backwards into him.”

“So, nobody pushed you? No one else was around?”

“Nope, not that I saw.”

“That's right, you said you were pushed,” Lassiter said, frowning himself. “Pushed how?”

“From behind—I was standing in front of the one-way mirror, not walking or backing away from anything,” Other-Lassie said. “I felt a shove from the back, and was knocked forward. I put my hands up, expecting to hit the glass, and instead I went through it and landed on the floor in front of you.”

“Was it a shove like someone's hands?” Shawn asked. “And are you sure it was a push, not a pull?”

“It was definitely a push,” Other-Lassie said slowly. “But I suppose I couldn't swear in court that it was from hands. I was alone in the room prior to that, and it happened so fast that no one would have had time to get the drop on me.”

“What about, um... seeing things in the mirrors earlier in the day?” Other-Shawn asked. “Because twice I think I saw _him_ instead of me.“

“Same here,” Shawn said. “Once right after I gave you my statement about the murderous mistress, Lassie, and the second time was right before it happened. Did you guys...?”

“Yes,” Lassiter said reluctantly. “But both times were very brief, and I chalked it up to being so exhausted.”

“Looks like there's more of a physical difference with me and my evil twin versus Carlton and his evil twin,” Other-Shawn said. “Mostly in the hair-wear.”

“Stop calling me 'evil twin'!” Shawn said, indignant. “You came through _my_ mirror, and your hair is nowhere near as awesome. You're the evil one.”

“Am not,” Other-Shawn said. “I'm good—I'm so good that Carlton says I'm his good boy. Don't you?”

“Most of the time,” Other-Lassiter agreed.

“Ha!” Other-Shawn crowed, while Lassie grimaced before shaking his head.

“Back on subject,” he said. “So we all experienced a glimpse at the—what, the other world?—before anything major happened. Anything in common to have caused it?”

Shawn shrugged. “I was just looking in the mirror after washing my hands in the men's at the station before I came home. Nothing else weird happened.”

“What time was it?” Other-Shawn asked.

“I don't know. Time to get a new watch?”

“You left the interview room where I had you write out your statement at approximately six-thirty,” Lassiter said. 

Other-Shawn's eyes widened a little. “Okay, wow. That was about when I saw Mirror-Me change.”

Lassiter sighed and dropped onto the edge of the armchair near the sofa. “Okay, full accounts, including times and places. Spencer, get everyone something to take notes on and something to write with. Then we'll compare and see if we can get a timeline of shared experiences and events.”

Twenty minutes later, Lassie had four pages of notes, and they had determined that at roughly the same exact times, both Shawns and both Lassiters had seen their doubles in mirrors instead of themselves, and that Other-Shawn and Other-Lassie had come through the mirrors into Shawn and Lassie's world at the same time, along with both mirrors breaking just after they hit the floors. Shawn had been the only one not awake when the storm had started, so he couldn't say, but the other three mentioned that they had taken notice of it because it had seemed to start out of nowhere, and had almost immediately been very intense. Other-Shawn was insistent that he thought the storm had something to do with it, and Shawn thought that he was probably right.

Lassiter sighed and straightened his pages of notes. “I have to get to work,” he said. “The three of you go over what else there might be in common, see if you think of any way you can go back through. Call me if there are any developments.”

“We can't be sure if there's anything in common with all four of us if we don't get your side,” Shawn said.

“I have to go to work, Spencer. I have cases that won't wait for this—this absurdity to clear up.”

“I wonder if you're working on the same cases,” Other-Shawn mused.

Other-Lassie glanced at Lassiter. “Barragan murder?”

Lassiter shook his head. “Merrick possible-suicide. I think it was murder.”

Other-Shawn grinned. “You're right. We actually solved that one last month.”

“You did,” Other-Lassie said.

“You helped,” Other-Shawn said. “You loosened it up like a pickle jar, with your strong hands and your long fingers and your—um, figurative banging the victim's business rival against the counter so I could unscrew his head.”

“Wow, you two are into all sorts of stuff,” Shawn said. Other-Shawn gave him a wink. 

“Right, whatever,” Other-Lassiter said. “The point is that you figured out what he did and found the evidence which pinned him to it. Case solved, onto the next one.” He seemed to think for a moment, and then he nodded decisively. “I'm not sitting around here all day. I'll come with you and get that murder wrapped up, and then you'll probably get the one I'm on now. If both of us are working on it, we can get it done twice as fast while these two investigate what happened to us.”

“All right,” Lassiter said doubtfully, and then he pointed at Shawn. “But I want to see real progress, none of your clowning around and playing games and eating snacks instead of working.”

“I can do both,” Shawn insisted. “How do you think I've been solving cases all along?”

Lassiter folded his arms. “Why don't you tell me?”

Shawn was tempted to, but now still wasn't the time, and he still wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't end up in a jail cell—despite what was going on with their other-world selves, this world's Lassie wasn't exhibiting any more leniency toward Shawn than he ever had; in fact, the situation seemed to have made him even more pissed off about it. Shawn glanced at his other self for help again.

“You can clown and play games, and I'll get a churro and go see a man about some eye of newt,” Other-Shawn suggested.

Lassiter sighed. “Great, so you're suggesting that only fifty percent of the two of you is taking this seriously.”

“I want a churro,” Shawn said. 

“Nope, it'll mess with your clown makeup,” Other-Shawn told him. “I need you on squeaky-nose point while I'm checking into random thunderstorms used for casting alternate-universe spells.”

“Are you two going to actually be able to get anything done?” Other-Lassiter asked, frowning again. “I know you can work, Shawn, but you're having too much fun with this already and I don't want to be here one more minute than we have to.”

“I'll work—we'll work,” Other-Shawn promised. “We'll double-team it. Shawn Spencer and Shawn Spencer on the case, that'll double the pace.”

“We're two, two, two mints in one,” Shawn added. “Okay. C'mon, Good Twin, let's go to the Psych office and make a plan of action.”

“Keep checking in,” Other-Lassie told Other-Shawn, and he smiled slightly. “If you solve it, don't go back without me.”

“Never,” Other-Shawn promised seriously. “I don't want to be there either if you're not there.”

“Can we go?” Lassiter asked, sounding annoyed. Shawn sighed quietly, wishing that the mere idea of them together, even in another world and being different versions of themselves, didn't piss him off. He still didn't know if their Other-selves being in a relationship gave him hope that one day he and Lassie would be, or that it was possible for them to be, or if it just depressed him, because they were different and it wasn't meant to happen in this world.

“Yeah,” Other-Lassiter said, and stood up. Other-Shawn stood too, looking up at his boyfriend hopefully, and then he smiled when Other-Lassie bent his neck down enough to give him a quick kiss before turning and heading for the door. Lassiter went through it and down the hall without a look back, but Other-Lassie glanced over his shoulder again before closing the door behind him.

“Great,” Other-Shawn said, rubbing his hands together. “Let's make a plan and get some breakfast.”

“In that order?” Shawn asked, wondering if the sad puppy eyes worked on himself.

Other-Shawn gave him a look. “C'mon, son!” he said. 

“Sweet.” Shawn grinned. “Let's go freak out that snotty barista at the Black Stream Coffee Co.”

“Excellent, I hate that guy.”

“No, no—we're a team, Other-Shawn. _We_ hate that guy. Now let's go order two drastically different things and then insist he's Jack and we're Annette and he's doing it wrong.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads up for anyone that might become uncomfortable with negative comments about food intake (particularly smartass judgey thoughts about overeating), as there are a few in this chapter and I don't want to surprise anyone into a bad space :)

“You can come with me, but you need to stay out of sight,” Lassiter told his double as they walked to his car. He lifted his key fob to unlock the doors, and then he paused. “In fact, you get in the back and lie down on the seat,” he directed. “I don't want anyone I know seeing you and having a coronary.”

“Who do you know that doesn't at least partly deserve one?” his double asked.

That was a good point, but again, he didn't want to give the scruffy bastard the satisfaction. “My world, my car, my rules,” he said. 

“Fine,” the other man said, unexpectedly agreeing. Lassiter was surprised for a moment before he continued speaking and ruined it. “But first, you're going to take me by your place. I need clothes—your clothes.”

Lassiter made a face, but he recognized the necessity. “Fine,” he said, and mentally set aside his least-liked suit and tie. “You can shave the crap off your face too.”

The other man shrugged unconcernedly, and Lassiter unlocked the car. They both got in, and when he checked his doppelganger in the back seat, he couldn't help a small smirk at the uncomfortable way the other man's long legs were bent up so that he would remain out of sight. His double saw it and glared at him, but before he could speak or attempt to get in the front seat anyway, Lassiter started the car and backed out of Spencer's parking lot and onto the road. He switched the radio on for the news as he drove, but he was only partly listening, almost not realizing that his thoughts were, once again, drawn back to Spencer (and Spencer #2), wondering how they were going to manage working together and if they would actually figure anything out. It was ridiculous to hope so, but then, there was a mirror-version of himself bent up like a grasshopper caught in the middle of a game of Twister in his back seat, so who was counting? 

His mind brought him a flash of an image, his other self kissing Spencer #2 goodbye before they left Spencer #1's apartment, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. _It made no sense_. Even if the other Spencer had found it within himself to stop lying with every other breath for two minutes, long enough to come clean about how he could actually do what he did, and what exactly it was he was doing, the man was downright annoying. His mouth never stopped moving, whether he was babbling or stuffing his face, he made unfunny jokes constantly, he didn't take police work seriously, he was lazy and had no solid work ethic—which really said something, considering who was his father, and Lassiter didn't see Henry Spencer slacking when it came to attempting to instill such values and respect in his son. Spencer must have been nearly out of the realm of instructible when it came to lessons on how to behave like a presentable human person. So why on Earth...? What could any version of himself possibly see as potential for an actual relationship there? He was very glad he hadn't been pulled into that other world instead of his other self coming through to his own—that other world must be a highly illogical place, and Lassiter wanted no part of it.

“So, judging by your screaming heebie-jeebies, I'm assuming your date with Adam Lucas turned you back toward the other team a lot more than it did me,” his double said from the back.

Lassiter nearly jerked in his seat, stamping down on the brakes too abruptly as they came to a yellow light. As the light turned red, he threw a warning glare over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

The other man looked back at him blandly, his own interrogation-room stare. “I'm merely trying to ascertain why you've been getting so pissy over the idea of me and Shawn together. You're repressed. Sad. I was able to move past it.”

Lassiter felt his shoulders tighten as he turned back in his seat to watch the traffic light. “I am not repressed—I'm private about my life and my interests, which simply do not happen to include Spencer.”

“See, now, I somehow doubt that,” the other man said, now sounding amused, which made Lassiter angrier. He was the one in the worst idea for a relationship since Bill and Hillary Clinton—what gave him the right to make judgments on anyone else's? “Let's look at the evidence. You practically started spitting at Shawn from your world when my Shawn sat in my lap and when I kissed him. Either you're repressed and revolted—you know, quite a lot of homophobia is internalized—or you want him but refuse to let it happen. I have a hard time believing that you didn't get enough misery being married to Victoria—and dealing with her leaving you—so you voluntarily choose to be alone when you could be with someone instead. So, you don't consider Shawn an option and, although he stirs up conflicting feelings in you, you have a strong negative reaction to the idea and display of being in a relationship with him because he's a man.”

“That's not why,” Lassiter said sourly. The light turned green and he almost tromped the gas, imagining throwing his smarmy double hard against the back seat, but again, didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to him in any way. He edged the gas pedal smoothly instead and got them back on the way to his apartment, but his jaw was clenched. 

“So you admit that you're interested in men.”

“I'm interested in people I'm interested in,” he said shortly.

“ _People_ like Shawn?” the other man pressed.

“I'm not talking about this with you,” Lassiter said. “There's an obvious major difference between the Spencer you're seeing and the one I know, and if you can't see that, that's not my problem. You're _not_ me and I don't care what you do with your free time, so you can just shut it about mine.”

“The difference isn't just with him,” the other man said quietly. 

Lassiter was in a terrible mood again by the time he pulled into his own parking lot. “Let's make this snappy,” he said. “I get you clothes, you change and shave, we go. I don't want to be any later than necessary, even if you do claim I solve that murder today.”

“With my help—and Shawn's help,” his other self said, extricating himself from the back of the car and shaking his leg as if it had gone to sleep. “And if you don't want to be late, just get me the clothes. I wouldn't mind waiting until tomorrow to shave.”

“You're unprofessional,” Lassiter snapped at him as they went inside the building. “I can't believe the chief lets you get away with that.”

His double snorted. “With the number of criminals I put away, especially since Shawn's been helping me and cutting my legwork in half? I practically run that place.” He reached up and ran a hand lightly across his lower jaw. “Shaving is a time-consuming pain in the ass,” he said. “And Shawn likes me this way.”

Lassiter bristled at that. “I don't give a good goddamn what Spencer likes or doesn't like,” he said as he unlocked his door. “When you're in my world, you're reflecting poorly on me, and I'm calling the shots.” He pointed to the door that led to the bathroom. The other man rolled his eyes, but he turned and headed down the hall. While he went, Lassiter diverted to his bedroom and reached into the back of his closet for the suit he'd pictured earlier, wrinkling his lip at it and being glad he had one on hand that he actually wouldn't mind never getting back. He pulled together the rest of the clothes he would need—undershirt, shorts, button down shirt, black socks, tie—and then stood in the bathroom doorway, watching his other self finish up scraping the bristles from his throat. His double glanced at him in the mirror but said nothing. 

When he was finished, Lassiter handed over the clothes and went to wait for him in the living room, standing uncertainly in the middle of the room for almost a minute before scowling and putting his hands on his hips and then restlessly beginning to pace, circling the sofa and then going to the kitchen to walk around the table before going back to the living room and making another lap. His double had been shaving in his undershirt, and Lassiter had thought he'd seen what looked like a bite mark on his shoulder. _Shawn_ , he mused, hearing the name in his mind as coming from the other man's mouth, and he paced faster, wishing he would hurry the Christ up so that he (they) could just go to work. O'Hara was off for a week starting today, and while he normally didn't mind working by himself, this was something else altogether. 

At just after seven o'clock that night, he and his double met both Spencers at the Psych Agency office; both Lassiters glared at each other while both Spencers beamed and chattered brightly. “Lassie!” Spencer #1 said giddily, nearly hopping in one spot. “You'll never guess what we found out today. We're the _only ones_ who saw that storm! The whole rest of Santa Barbara didn't see a thing—it wasn't raining cats, or dogs, or even men.”

“Which is great, considering the mess that would have made,” Spencer #2 said, sliding onto the small sofa in the window next to the other Lassiter. “And also great because it's a lead—the storm definitely had something to do with it.”

“Great,” Lassiter said, leaning against Guster's desk with his arms folded across his chest. “I found out that, apparently, no one but the two of us can see that the one-way mirror in the interview room where he came through is broken.” He indicated the other Lassiter with his thumb. “Chief Vick didn't mention anything about it to me when I met with her today, so I went down to look. Still broken in lines. I called McNab over and told him to go down there to get a folder I left behind, and he didn't give any indication that he noticed anything out of the ordinary either.”

“But it's McNab, so who really knows,” the other Lassiter said. “I looked too—it's definitely still broken.”

Both Spencers looked surprised, and they exchanged a look. “Just like the storm,” Spencer #2 said.

Spencer #1 nodded. “There's some super-shady concentrated spellwork going on here, if only those of us affected by it can see the physical side-effects.”

Lassiter sighed tiredly. “So what's your next step?”

“I think to talk to a few more psychics I—we know of,” Spencer #1 said. “Today we just went by the ones who are faker than Lindsay Lohan's sobriety. I want to know if any of the others saw it, or if it was seriously just us. If anyone did, they'd be the first to know its relevance and maybe how we can reverse what caused it and what happened.”

“And if you can't find anyone that did see it?” It sounded like a stretch to Lassiter, but it wasn't like he had any other ideas to offer, and at least it was keeping them busy.

“There's bound to be at least one who'll have suggestions on where to go from there,” Spencer #2 said. “We're not even sure where to start—I mean, we thought of spell books, to research how to universe-jump, but there are so many.” He looked at the other Lassiter. “While my Evil Twin over there was talking to a magick shop owner, I leafed through a book and found out how to turn mean neighbors into _verminae_ including rats and squirrels. I memorized it for when we get back to our own world and the d-bag across the hall starts talking really loud about traditional marriage values when we come home. Happy late birthday.”

The other Lassiter snorted. “I'm not sure such a transformation would make a difference.”

“Aha, but it would—then I'd get a fleet of cats.” He glanced at Spencer #1. “A fleet?”

Spencer #1 shrugged. “A pride? No, that's lions. But lions are cats.”

“Clowder,” Lassiter supplied. 

Spencer #1 looked at him. “Clown chowder?”

The other Lassiter snorted again. “A group of cats is called a clowder.”

“You're so smart.” Spencer #2 grinned at him. “Can I get a clowder of cats?”

“We'll talk about it later.”

“Cool. Did you take care of that not-a-suicide murder?”

“Yes,” the other Lassiter said, giving Lassiter an annoyed look. “And now I know how frustrated it must have made you when I refused to believe you on cases when you _knew_ the answers.”

Lassiter glared back at him. “ _Your word_ is not evidence. I can't believe I have to keep reminding you of that! Just because you apparently take _his_ word on everything under the sun in your own world doesn't mean I have enough evidence for a search warrant in mine. What was I supposed to tell the chief, 'My smartass double says the poison's at Geoff Rogers' house'?”

“It would have been a lot faster than having to track him down and put the squeeze on him by lying and saying you were looking at his wife for it,” his double said, frowning. His eyes slid over to Spencer #1 for a moment before coming back. “It also would have been faster if you just called _that_ Shawn in on the case—he might have had a _psychic vision_.” 

Lassiter saw Spencer #1 blink in surprise, and his lips parted slightly, but he didn't want to give him a chance to talk. “I told you no—he has nothing to do with that case, or with any of my cases, unless he butts in. I was solving cases for years before he turned up, or don't you remember that? Maybe you're too reliant on however he frauds it up in your world to do your own detective work.”

“What's important is that the case gets solved, and with enough evidence in the end to convict and put away a lowlife criminal to the fullest extent of the law,” the other Lassiter said calmly.

“And that it's done with proper police procedure!”

“Say that five times fast,” Spencer #1 said to his own double. Spencer #2 snorted softly but didn't interject anything himself.

“Proper police procedure is preventing crime when you can, and solving them and convicting the perpetrators when you can't,” the other Lassiter said. “The rest is negotiating politics and red tape while crimes are committed under your nose. You know, I looked at your arrest record while you were finishing up your report on Rogers. In the last year I've made arrests on 41% more cases than you have, and all but three of those arrests stuck. I'm breaking records for cases solved in the last year, and you're being made to sound foolish in local newspapers. Guess why.”

Lassiter clenched his fists. He'd told his creepy mirror image to stay in the car, not wander around _his_ police department and end up drawing attention to something he still hoped was a bad dream and that no one else would ever be aware had happened. “You're obviously getting different cases than I am and at different times, otherwise we wouldn't have had the exact same one just weeks apart. You mentioned a kidnapping earlier today that I've never heard of, as well. If you're getting easier cases then it doesn't at all prove you're a better detective or that that clairvoyant clown is actually helping at all.”

“Clairvoyant clowns would be an awesome circus addition,” Spencer #1 said, and closed his eyes, putting two fingers on his right temple. “I'm getting... pie in the face. But after that, a midget with a flower on his lapel and the sad eyes of a Britney Spears backup dancer is going to come along with the seltzer water, so we'll be tidied up in a jiffy.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It's late and I'm hungry, and I've had enough of this nonsense for the rest of the night. I'm going home if there's nothing else we can do to try to reverse this nightmare tonight. I'm going to regret asking this, but did you two actually find out anything else worthwhile at the hippie five-and-dime?”

“The owners of the spell shops that we actually wanted to go to were all gone before we came here,” Spencer #2 said.

Lassiter glanced at him. “And you didn't think to get their names to go talk to them at their homes?”

He shrugged. “We tried, but the first one wouldn't talk to us because there was something funky going on with some alignment somewhere and she needed to throw together a séance, and the next one—the one we should talk to first tomorrow—would barely let _us_ talk to try to explain, because he said he could tell we were the same person but from different worlds, and he was going to transform his wife from a cat back to a person so that she could do a 'real' reading on our auras.”

“My aura is clean and sparkly fresh and totally dope,” Spencer #1 said. “I just got it back from the fly cleaners.”

“We didn't try the other two since we figured we could just get them all tomorrow in succession, and then Carlton called and said you two wanted to meet us here,” Spencer #2 went on. “That's the plan for now. If any of them actually know anything, we can find out what, and what to do about it. If they don't, we can do more research to see if any of those spell books or anything has anything useful. In the meantime, though...” He paused and leaned to one side, rummaging in his pocket and then coming out with what looked like a deck of cards, which he offered to the other Lassiter. “I found Sexy Tarot Cards. Want to find out our fates? There's a Magician and a Hung Man in there.”

“I thought Gus said it was The Hanged Man,” Spencer #1 said.

“He was wrong,” Spencer #2 said, and grinned. 

“That's it, I'm out of here,” Lassiter said, and he left before that conversation could possibly get any more embarrassing. He didn't go right home, though—he was still feeling shell-shocked at the absurdity of the situation as a whole, not to mention so frustrated with 'himself' and how that man could possibly be a version of him when he was _so irritating_ , that he decided a few hours at the shooting range would take his mind off of it and help him relax. 

The next morning, he reluctantly went back to Spencer's apartment, this time bringing his second most-disliked suit and extra clothes so that he wouldn't have to deal with carting his know-it-all double back to his own place for him to change. He'd gotten a call from Chief Vick to come directly to her office for his day's assignment and was more than ready to go, but first, some new ground rules needed to be laid out and understood by everyone.

“Today is not going to be a repeat of yesterday,” he said, once Spencer had gotten fresh clothes for his double and the other Lassiter looked presentable enough so that Lassiter himself didn't want to rub the side of his face against a piece of sandpaper. He pointed at said other Lassiter, who put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows challengingly. Lassiter thought that he probably wouldn't be so cocky after he gave them _their_ new assignments. “I am not taking you with me to work, and I'm not working with you,” he said firmly. “You take _that_ Spencer—” Here his pointed index finger aimed at Spencer #1, who looked like a surprised chipmunk with his cheeks full of Frosted Flakes, “—and go look into the so-called psychics and magic shop owners they were onto yesterday. If nothing else, you're police-trained, so you should be able to keep him in line enough to make some actual progress.”

“We made progress!” Spencer #2 protested. “We asked about the storm, and we found out that most people didn't see it, and we tracked down two out of the four people who claim to seriously be real psychics who might know what happened—”

“And we found a muffin shop that will bake you anything you want in fifteen minutes, including a pineapple and strawberry with vanilla-orange glaze that's the size of your _head_ ,” Spencer #1 said. “We even got buy-one-get-one-free because the pastry chef thought we were twins and said it was only fair because of the BOGO our parents got.”

Lassiter briefly envisioned Henry Spencer trying to deal with twin Shawns, or this situation in particular, and he shook his head briskly. “I don't care about your muffin discoveries. I have a murder to deal with, and _you_ —” and here he pointed to Spencer #2, who also looked surprised, but had finished his bowl of cereal and had actually been sitting quietly instead of refilling it for a second round of The Stuffed Face Race like Spencer #1 apparently had, “—are coming with me.”

“Me? Um... okay? Why?”

“Because I don't trust the two of you being able to not screw around long enough to get this entire freakshow taken care of, and I'm not working with him.” Lassiter gave Spencer #1 a disapproving look before glancing at Spencer #2 again. “You're actually moderately less annoying,” he said grudgingly. “So. You're with me, _if_ you can follow orders and do what I tell you.”

“I can,” Spencer #2 said, and smiled very slightly. He darted a glance at the other Lassiter, but he didn't look at him, just continued scowling at Lassiter.

“That'll be a shock and I'll believe it when I see it,” Lassiter said. “Come on, then.” He looked at the other Lassiter and at the original Spencer, who were now sizing each other up. “Can you two handle working together on this so that our doubles can go home and we can all get back to our normal lives?”

“Sure,” Spencer said brightly, although his eyes looked worried. “Actually, this might help—I can't count the number of places I could get in to if I had a cop with a real badge with me.”

“You don't think the psychics will refuse to talk to us if they know I'm a cop?” the other Lassiter asked.

“Being a psychic isn't illegal, Lassie.”

The other man snorted, though this time he sounded impatient rather than amused. “Right. I'm sure none of their 'herbal supplements' are illegal either.” He looked at Spencer #2 and crooked a finger at him. “Come here.”

Lassiter tried—he really did—to refrain from rolling his eyes as the other Spencer got up from his chair at the kitchen table and presented himself in front of the other Lassiter with his hands clasped neatly behind his back and a smile on his face. The other Lassiter looked down at him for a moment and then leaned forward slightly, murmuring something into his ear, to which Spencer #2 listened and then nodded solemnly. The other Lassiter reached up to cup his jaw for just a second, his thumb gently stroking the skin of his cheek, and then he dropped his hand and made eye-contact with Spencer #1, tilting his head toward the door. 

“Move,” he said. “I want to talk to those store owners and find out if there really is any truth to that bull crap about us being the only ones that saw a freak thunderstorm and what bearing spells or curses or whatever might or might not have on what happened to us.”

Spencer #1 was on his feet instantly, standing up straight with his eyes gleaming but still watchful. “Awesome,” he said. “I know right where to start. See you later, Good Twin and Original-Flavor Lassie.”

“Does that sound like a porno?” Spencer #2 asked, hooking his thumbs into his jeans pockets as Spencer #1 followed Lassiter's double out the door and down the hall. Lassiter thought that he may have jumped the gun thinking that this version of Spencer could actually be less irritating than the one he'd known for years. He sighed wearily and motioned for Spencer to follow him, so that he could get on with his murder investigation, _not_ wondering if it really was possible that this Spencer would be of any help to him.


	8. Chapter 8

After Other-Lassie spent almost an entire minute of trying to push the driver's seat of the Blueberry back farther than its manufacturers intended, Shawn gestured to the passenger side instead. “I could drive and you could stretch out there,” he offered. “I know where we're going, anyway. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty.”

Other-Lassie gave him an exasperated look. “Don't call me pretty,” he snapped. “And _I'll_ drive—I'm the senior officer here.”

“I'm not an officer at all, so that's moot,” Shawn pointed out. “And this isn't even my car—Gus only said I could drive it while he was out of town if I had a case. I do have a case—the Mysterious Mayhem of Mirror Men—so you should just chill over here and be my chief navigator while I pilot this vessel.”

“It's not a ship, Shawn,” Other-Lassie said, but he seemed to be reconsidering. Shawn waited, savoring the sound of his first name coming from his mouth, and after another moment Other-Lassie sighed and hoisted himself out of the seat. “Fine,” he said, and he went around to the passenger side. “Drive. Tell me about the first suspect we're trying to find.”

“Well, first? He's not a suspect.” Shawn paused, thinking about that while adjusting the driver's seat back to where it'd been. “Okay, maybe he is? I guess I don't know, since we have no idea what happened. I didn't notice anything weird about him yesterday, other than the fact that he apparently turned his wife into a cat. Or maybe she turned herself into a cat but couldn't get back—I wasn't really clear on that. He did say he was going to put out some tuna for her last night, though, and hopefully we could talk to them both this morning.”

“He was the one who sensed some dis-alignment with the universe waves, or whatever?”

“No, that was the other one, the Ukrainian woman. The dude we talked to said he could tell from our auras that we were the same person. Which was really freaky, considering that we don't look _exactly_ alike—more like twins than the literal same person. I didn't even know I had an aura, has, uh, your Shawn ever mentioned his?”

“No.” 

Shawn had started the car and turned to look over his shoulder to get them out onto the road, and when he glanced at Other-Lassie, he saw his jaw tighten briefly and he seemed to stop breathing for a few seconds—he had stifled a yawn. He couldn't imagine that his sofa-bed was comfortable at all to sleep on, and he and Other-Shawn had stayed up until almost two playing video games that Gus didn't like and got bored with easily (there really was some benefit to having to play with yourself, it seemed); while Other-Lassie had tried to make more case notes regarding what they knew about what had happened to them, and then to read the only few books Shawn currently had in his apartment ( _Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Azkaban_, two from the _Goosebumps_ series, a cook book teaching one how to emulate the Red Lobster cheddar biscuits and The Colonel's secret recipe, and a compilation of strange things people had found written on bathroom stalls across America), he hadn't been able to lie down and relax until Other-Shawn had shut the games off and declared that he'd win back his title of undefeated the next day. (Shawn had tried to tell him that he _had_ been defeated, and that he couldn't just win such a title back with a subsequent victory, but Other-Shawn had gotten a little obnoxious in his insistence that he could and he would. Shawn could maybe understand a little better now why Gus only played video games with him occasionally.) 

So, Other-Lassie was tired, and Shawn leaped at the chance to get high in his good books. “I'm getting the sense that you wouldn't say no to a big cup of joe,” he said. “There's a great place two blocks—”

“ _Don't_ do that, Shawn.”

Shawn glanced at him, a little startled at the sharp tone. Lassie was often sharp with him, but this was different— _this_ Lassie meant it. It wasn't simply a direction without much real threat behind it; this was an order given with the utmost conviction that it would be obeyed. The weird thing was, Shawn felt like he _wanted_ to obey it, to do exactly as Lassie told him instead of messing with him or teasing him—he just wasn't entirely sure what it was he wasn't supposed to be doing. “Don't what?” he asked. “Offer you coffee?”

“Don't pull the 'psychic' bullshit with me.” Other-Lassie gave him a flat look that was vaguely threatening in the way that seemed to remove all emotion from his face and his voice. “I know what it really is, so drop the pretense and just say what you see. I don't like it when you lie and try to manipulate me, so cut it out _now_.” 

Shawn blinked, stuck for a few seconds between defensiveness (he honestly hadn't been trying to do anything but suggest they stop for coffee because he could tell that the other man was tired) and confusion at the way part of his mind had started frantically searching for ways to make it right, anything so that Lassie wasn't mad at him, wouldn't use that tone with him. “I wasn't?” he managed after a moment. “I just meant... I'm sorry.”

The other Lassiter continued to look at him with his face blank, except for his slightly narrowed eyes, and then Shawn thought he saw his eyes soften a little before he looked away and settled more comfortably into his seat. “Fine,” he said. “Let's go.”

Shawn slowly put the car into reverse and got them on the road. “Did you want some coffee?” he asked almost timidly, after a couple of minutes of silence. “I really didn't—I just thought you were probably tired, and I could use some, so...”

“Yes, fine.”

Shawn relaxed and made a left, feeling better now that Other-Lassie's voice wasn't as harsh. He parked in a fifteen minute spot, went into the cafe and picked up two large coffees (making sure to utterly douse one in cream and sugar), and was back with five minutes to spare. He held out Other-Lassie's coffee proudly, and watched his face carefully as he tasted it: almost no reaction, other than downing just about half of it in several long swallows. With Lassiter, sometimes no reaction was the best one could hope for, because it meant things were acceptable, as he damn sure let everyone around him know when things weren't. Shawn smiled and sipped his own coffee, then he set it in the Blueberry's cup holder and started the car back up.

As he drove to Wiccans R Us, or whatever it was called, the other Lassie suddenly glanced up from his sheets of notes he'd been studying and and looked at Shawn with his eyebrows slightly raised. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee. You fixed it exactly right.” He paused. “Not that I trust any Tom, Dick, or Harry to get it for me, but when I _have_ asked, even with explicit directions, it's almost never actually right.”

“Oh, sure, 'tweren't nothin',” Shawn said, grinning again.

“I guess you in both worlds _can_ remember simple directions, unlike dunderheads like McNab and Parsons.” He paused again. “I almost forgot you're not you—at least, not the you I know,” he went on slowly. “I suppose I'm sorry I snapped at you—it's ridiculous that you're keeping up that magical psychic malarkey, because I've never once believed it and I'll bet you a dead cat _and_ a string to swing it with that this world's version of me hasn't ever either. But if that's what you're used to, I guess I can't blame you for falling back on habit when we got into the car.”

Shawn opened his mouth to reiterate that he really hadn't meant for it to sound like that, but then he realized that here, sitting beside him, was some version of of Carlton Lassiter not only explaining to him why he'd snapped at him but apologizing for it as well. “It's cool,” he said. “I also almost forgot—I mean, not that you're not the Lassie I know, but that the other me told you, uh... what did he tell you, exactly?”

“Everything, or so he says.”

“And... you're not sure that's all?”

“Fairly sure,” Other-Lassie said dryly. “I wouldn't have asked him to move in with me otherwise.”

“Wow,” Shawn said softly. “So, um, can I ask? Why it was that he told you in the first place?”

“Because I wouldn't consider dating him if he kept insisting he solved cases with help from dead spirits.”

“Oh.” Shawn applied the brake as they came to a yellow light, and he had to consciously make his hands to loosely grasp the steering wheel instead of grabbing onto it with a death grip. “And, um... can I ask what your reaction was when he told you the truth?”

The other Lassie turned and looked at him full-on, and Shawn found his mouth dry when he met that intense gaze. After a short moment, Other-Lassie smiled a little, and Shawn couldn't bring himself to check whether or not the light was green again yet. “When he told me about his staggering deductive abilities, his mind-blowing observational skills, and his astounding memory?” He raised one eyebrow slightly and tilted his head toward the street. “Green light.”

Shawn forced himself to break eye-contact, feeling like he was sinking in an ocean and flying through the sky at the same time; Carlton Lassiter really did have the bluest blue eyes he'd ever seen, and he sort of wanted to smush Other-Shawn's face into a bowl of pudding for being the one who had a free pass to stare into them all lovey-dovey. Not that he was really all that much of a lovey-dovey sort of guy, but this was _Lassie_. Granted, the fact that Shawn had wanted him for so long and had been almost completely rebuffed in every way didn't help the longing factor (nor did the sexyscruffy stubble he'd been sporting the day before), and neither, of course, did all of those things Lassie had just said about what Shawn could do when it came to solving cases. He had to try hard to keep his heart from growing three sizes as he started them going again. “Is that what he calls it?” he asked, trying for casual. 

“No, that's what I call it.”

“Oh,” Shawn breathed quietly, his stomach feeling light and quivery like he was almost to the top of a roller coaster. “So what did you say then?”

“I said three things. The first was that I was even more impressed than before and he should have just told me all of that in the first place. The second was that he should have been a cop.” Other-Lassie smiled again. “The third was to have dinner with me.”

Shawn could see the storefront for Wesley's Westward Winds about a block ahead, which he was actually thankful for, as he didn't know what to do or say right now. On one hand, he was glad for the other world's versions of himself and Lassie, for them being able to figure out what they wanted with each other and to make it work between them. On the other hand, he was jealous and uncertain, a little resentful that it couldn't have been _him_ and _this_ world's Lassie that somehow got to a point where anything between them was even an option. 

He parked across the street from the magick shop and got out, trying now to get his head back in the game: if the man he and Other-Shawn had talked to yesterday could at all help them figure out what had happened and how to reverse it, he needed to be sharp and on point to pick up anything else that might be of use to them. He hadn't wanted to say it aloud, but ever since he'd gotten it through his head that there really was an alternate-him and alternate-Lassie that had come through their mirrors and that both mirrors had broken immediately afterward, he wasn't at all sure it would even be possible to reverse it. Maybe if the mirrors had remained intact because then if the spell—or whatever—could be undone, they could go back the way they'd come. This was some supernatural, science-fiction stuff here, and he could think of several books and movies that agreed: if the way home was destroyed, you were stuck where you were. Although... maybe that wouldn't turn out to be so bad.

“Let me do the talking,” he said, as he and Other-Lassie came up to the sidewalk. 

“I'm the actual detective here,” Other-Lassie said haughtily.

“I'm a detective too!” Shawn insisted. “You even said Other-Shawn helped you solve cases, and you know how I do it. This is so much more my fort of expertise than yours.”

“It's forte,” Other-Lassie grumbled.

“Nope, it's a fort—one that I built, one unconventional investigation at a time, except when I got a bulk order from the Spirits section at Costco.” When Other-Lassie shot him a look, Shawn grinned. “They do have one. And to be fair, Gus was totally convinced that a box of wine he bought from there was haunted.”

“Was that after he consumed the entire thing and you started messing with him?”

“You know, I'm going to have to consult my notes on that,” Shawn said, stopping when they came up to the door. “But look—this dude could _tell_ yesterday there were _two_ of _me_ , not that me and Other-Shawn were twins, so maybe he really does know something, and flashing your badge isn't going to get his lip to start flapping.” He glanced at Other-Lassie and considered him, remembering that Lassiter was Head Detective for a reason, and that he _did_ often think of things that Shawn sometimes forgot to look for in the interest of chains of evidence. “I mean, if you want to chime in, by all means,” he added. “Just, you know, remember that the strong-arm act isn't going to do it with people that believe rocks can speak to them.”

Other-Lassie arched an eyebrow again. “Or people that believe you can be sucked through a mirror into a different world?”

Shawn made a 'tsk!' sound and gestured to the man standing next to him. “Evidence, son! You're standing here! You find a rock that tells me to roll, and _then_ we'll deal with that.” He opened the door and they went inside. 

Other-Lassie made a small disgusted noise the second he stepped foot in, which Shawn covered up with a big grin and a hail to the man behind the counter. The guy who had stared between him and Other-Shawn for almost twenty minutes the day before looked up and seemed to flinch, raising an accusatory finger at Other-Lassie, who, unfortunately, froze for exactly one-third of a second before sticking his hand inside his jacket and gripping the gun in his holster.

“You!” the proprietor of the shop cried. “You're back! Whatever sort of creature you are, know this: the Earth Mother rejects you, and so does the spirit of Father Time! You're not of this world, and you'll not take any of us back with you!”

“I'd be more than glad to go myself!” Other-Lassie snapped.

“Whoa!” Shawn said, holding up both of his hands and taking a small step toward the counter. “Dude, let's just... okay? You remember me, right? I was here yesterday with my less-handsome doppelganger. _This_ guy has never been here before.”

“He brings with him on the wind the smell of yesteryear and doom,” Wesley Windface said darkly, and then paused, as if to consider. “And Axe body wash. You know that stuff doesn't really give you unlimited female attention, right?”

“That's totally not a problem,” Shawn told Wesley as Other-Lassie shot him a glare. (Shawn ignored him—he could have just as easily showered with the old bar of hotel room soap Shawn had offered when he'd demanded something other than the Axe that morning, but he'd chosen to smell like a Phoenix, and that was _right_.) “And hey, what's with the attitude?” he asked. “We were fine yesterday—we talked about freaky-deaky storms, movies with Tawny Kitaen and Ouija boards, and how to revert your spouse from furry status. Unless you're into that, which, hey, we're not judging.”

“I'm judging,” Other-Lassie said flatly. 

“Oh, please, with some of the stuff _you're_ into?” Shawn scoffed.

Other-Lassie squinted at him. “How would you know?”

Shawn couldn't tell if that was a burn or not. “Well, there's the stuff _I'm_ into,” he said, grinning. “If we're lovers in the nighttime in your world, I'm sure I've won you over.”

Unexpectedly, the other Lassiter snorted in amusement and then smiled a little back at him. “How sure are you that it's not the other way around?” he asked softly. 

Shawn blinked, his mind entirely blank for two or three whole seconds before filling with such a variety of images that he thought he was very soon going to have to either turn the subject around completely or hide his lower half behind a display of charms and stones that apparently warded off either bad dreams or fart clouds (he couldn't tell from the picture on the front of the case). “I... Wesleydidyoufindyourwife?” he managed.

The shopkeeper's shoulders slumped. “No, she didn't come home. I put out a dish of her favorite tuna and a saucer of lactose-free milk, but she wasn't on the step waiting for me when I woke up early to listen to the music of the season.”

“I'm sorry, man,” Shawn said sympathetically while Other-Lassie rolled his eyes. “Is she the one that we needed to talk to? You said yesterday that you could tell my other self was out of his own universe, and that's actually true—this guy here is out of his, too. They both belong to the same one, and we need to figure out a way to get them back home.”

The demeanor of the man behind the counter changed then, going from melancholy to either intentionally hilariously over-dramatic or deludedly solemn about his ability to speak with the wind. Shawn flicked his eyes toward the confusing drawing he'd seen a minute ago and pictured this dude communicating with Henry's broken wind after a night of beans and franks.

“This is a crucial time for you,” Wesley said in a low voice, staring so hard at Other-Lassie that Shawn was afraid he might go for his gun again. “The spell must have been very powerful indeed to call up such a storm that would thunder through the universes, lightning that would leave bright the way from one to the other as it ripped across the sky and pulled you through.”

“How do we reverse it?” Shawn asked.

Wesley shrugged. “That depends on the person who cast it.”

“How do we find them?” Other-Lassie asked.

“That depends on whether or not they want to be found.”

Shawn saw Other-Lassie's hand twitch, as if to go for his holster, and fought an urge to just grab it with his own and then hold onto it. “Look, man,” he said. “Can you give us _anything_ that'll help?”

“I've identified the force that offended the Earth Mother for you,” Wesley said, sounding a little offended.

“Did you see this purported thunderstorm?” Other-Lassie asked.

Wesley blinked and hesitated just slightly. “No,” he said. “But my wife did. She was very upset, nothing I did could calm her down.”

“Did you try dragging a shoelace across the floor?”

“She wasn't a cat then!” Wesley shot, folding his arms. “You, carbon-copy of a real spirit that dwells in this universe, are a non-believer, and I'll thank you to leave my shop now.”

“Gladly! You're just wasting our time!” Other-Lassie said, irritated. “Come on, Shawn.”

Shawn stepped up to the counter quickly, putting his hands on the glass surface of another display case and leaning forward. “C'mon man, please?” he asked softly. “Do you know anything? This is way out of anything we've ever experienced before, and all four of us aren't really sure which way is up right now. They just want to get home, to their own universe. You took one look at me and the other me and knew we were the same guy, not twins. He's displaced.” Wesley was giving a sour look over his shoulder at Other-Lassie, who had gone to stand impatiently by the door, and he didn't look convinced. “I'll help you find your wife,” Shawn offered. “I'm psychic.”

“Prove it,” Wesley said flatly.

Shawn was surprised—here this a-hole was, hocking the wind spirits and the invisi-storms and the Planety Mommy or whatever, and he wanted _proof_? His eyes flicked around the room more quickly than most people could see (at least, almost no one ever caught him glancing around for clues when he cold-read someone), and in that fraction of a moment he saw enough to make him smile gently, his own I Have A Spirit Up My Butt And I Kind Of Like It expression. “Your wife is beautiful,” he said. “She has startling green eyes that can see into your soul, and a calm way about her that both soothes you and makes you understand that she'll gladly kill for you. Her hair is soft and sleek and reminds you of the night, and freedom, even when you're all cuddly in bed together. She's your best friend and always comes to you when you're upset, but she has sharp teeth for anyone or anything that gets in her way.”

Wesley was staring at him with wide eyes. “Yes,” he breathed. “That's exactly right. Can you feel her?”

“A bit of her spirit always remains with you,” Shawn said, not looking out the window and the alley behind the shop. “And I promise I'll help you look for her... as soon as the part of _my_ spirit that belongs in another world is sent back. Is there anything at all you can think of that would help us?”

“You should talk to Alina Belavol, otherwise known as Lady Bela,” he said.

“We did!” Shawn said, starting to feel excited. “Or, we tried to—she said that she needed to consult some other spirits during a séance to ask what we were and how we could be in the same place.” He glanced back at Other-Lassie. “I bet she has by now—it _has_ been a whole night. How hard can it be to throw a séance at midnight?”

“Whatever,” Other-Lassie said dryly. “Let's blow.”

Shawn grinned in lieu of saying something high-schooley like, 'When and where?' “I'll drive.”

Outside, Other-Lassie stopped half a block away as a black cat with green eyes exited the alley and sat down in front of him. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at Shawn, who grinned, and he shook his head a little. “Lady, I'm sorry, but your husband is crazier than a shithouse rat,” he said seriously. “You're better off chasing actual shithouse rats.”

“Good little girl cat,” Shawn said, bending down to scratch its ears. He found a couple of stray Goldfish crackers in the front pocket of the hooded sweatshirt he was wearing and scattered them on the sidewalk. “There,” he said. “Now you don't even have to go home.” He brushed a few crumbs off his palms and stood up, catching Other-Lassie's eye as the other man stood by the passenger seat of the Blueberry. “Cats like fish, right?” he asked. “Or cheese, at least? Anyway! Onward and upward.”

“If you call a second whacko with a planchette 'upward',” Other-Lassie grumbled as he fit himself back into the car. He blew out an annoyed breath as Shawn simply started the car and got them back onto the road. “I don't know how much of a waste of time this really is,” he said. “Even if _some_ magic is apparently real, how are we supposed to figure out exactly what sort, and how much, and who knows of it, and who could or would do anything about it?”

“I don't know,” Shawn admitted. “But what else are we going to do?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his eyes downcast.

Shawn glanced at him and then frowned worriedly at the road; a morose Lassie could quickly get out of hand. “Look, we'll figure it out,” he said. “We will, okay? I will. I promise. As long as it's remotely possible, I won't stop until I find the answer. No matter what it takes, we'll get you home... Carlton.” Shawn said his name softly, trying to show that that he was telling the truth (and that he _would_ tell the truth to him, and Lassie really could believe him when he meant it), and it was awkward coming out of his mouth... but, at the same time, was something he could get used to if it was important to the other man.

Other-Lassie didn't say anything for a long moment, in which Shawn's slightly anxious feeling grew. Finally, he looked up and smiled, and the unpleasant wiggly feeling in Shawn's midsection settled down and he could breathe properly again. “Okay, Shawn,” he said. He sat back against the seat, not entirely convinced, but looking much better anyway. “Lead the way. I'll be right behind you.”

Shawn deliberately missed the turn to the fortune teller's house, deciding that as long as he had Lassie next to him, trusting him and counting on him, he could take the long way around. Anything to hold on to that feeling, to hold on to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Lassiter sat silently in his car with Spencer #2 next to him, staring at the side of a building where a shady-sounding witness had last been seen. He'd been tempted to threaten (or possibly even bribe) this Spencer into keeping his mouth shut while he was trying to work, but he was mildly surprised to find that it hadn't been necessary—Spencer #2 was sitting quietly and gazing out of the window, not fidgeting, not doing anything except gently tapping his fingers against his thigh. Judging by the rhythm, Lassiter thought he probably had some stupid song in his head, but he didn't care as long as it stayed there and didn't come belting out of his mouth. Lassiter had his dark sunglasses on, so he was fairly sure that Spencer couldn't see that he couldn't help glancing at him every now and then. He wasn't sure why he was doing it, only that this Spencer just seemed _different_ than the other, and he couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't just the way he looked (a little thinner in the face and arms, his hair shorter and flatter, much like Spencer #1 had worn it the first year Lassiter had known him); it was something in his overall demeanor, something in the way he spoke and in his eyes. Not just with Lassiter's other self, either—that much was obvious when it came to the difference there, although he still thought he'd be damned if he'd ever understand it.

“What did he say to you?” he asked after a long silence. Not that he cared—whatever had passed between them as Lassiter #2 and his Spencer looked at each other before they'd all parted ways was between them, and Lassiter himself had no part in it—but it was weird to be so quiet and calm with any sort of Spencer around, and that might get him talking.

“Hmm?” 

“The—” Lassiter made an awkward gesture to himself. “You know, the other me. Before we left. If he told you to keep some secret agenda while I'm trying to work on my case, I need to know about it.”

“An agenda? Like, what? Ten-thirty: sneak into the computer and find out who's been busted for casting spells all over town in the last six months? Then at eleven o'clock: tacos?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “No. I just—you just looked really serious, and it's such an unfamiliar expression on your face that I wanted to know if _he_ was trying to put you up to something.”

Spencer's smile widened. “Nah. He just told me to be good.”

 _Good?_ “What does that mean?” Lassiter asked suspiciously. 

“You know, just... to be good.” Spencer #2 shrugged. “Behave, obey, make him—or I guess you—happy.”

Lassiter blinked at that, surprised. “What, and you actually listen to that?”

“Of course,” Spencer said, smiling again. “I'm always good for him. Well, maybe not always, but as much as I can, I am.”

“I'm surprised you can actually behave at all.” Let alone take direction from him—or some version of him—to do so.

“Sure I can,” Spencer said softly, looking at him intently. Lassiter blinked again and was glad once more for his dark glasses. “And I do, for him, when he asks me to.”

“Whatever,” Lassiter muttered, and he turned to gaze out of the window again. It was quiet for a minute or two while he studied the building, seeing nothing and feeling frustrated. It didn't help that his hand was starting to ache, the muscles cramping from how long he'd spent at the shooting range yesterday. He rubbed at it, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. Spencer #2 glanced over at his hands, and then he turned toward him, reaching for him.

“Here,” he said softly. “Let me.”

Lassiter frowned. “Let you what?”

“Your hand—it's from shooting, right?” Before he could say anything, Spencer had taken his hand and started to pull it closer to himself. Lassiter wasn't sure what the hell he was doing until he gently held his wrist in one hand and applied the tip of his thumb to the bunch of muscle underneath Lassiter's thumb and started to knead and rub it.

Lassiter tried to pull his hand back, but Spencer gripped his wrist more firmly and held on, looking up at him and holding eye contact while his fingers continued to massage his hand. “What the hell are you doing?” Lassiter asked him, feeling incredibly awkward, half like he wanted to relax and let him—it was working, his hand was loosening up and already feeling less achey—and half like he wanted to reach over him, open the car's passenger door, and shove him out.

“I'm reading your future,” Spencer #2 said, grinning slightly.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “No, you're not. You at least admitted you're not psychic, even if _he_ hasn't, so I'm counting it.” He looked down, still torn between allowing his arm to relax and using it to fling the alternate-universe apparition off of him. “Besides, that's not even how the real fake crystal ballers read palms. You're not even looking at my palm.”

“The _real_ fake ones,” Spencer said, sounding amused. He did look down at Lassiter's hand now, using the flat of his thumb to knead a larger area of the muscle in his hand, stroking it outward, seeming to disperse the worst of the ache as if it melted at his touch. Lassiter scowled again—that was a weird thing to think. “I'm impressed, Carlton,” Spencer said. “I'm learning all of these things I never knew about you, like how much of your own expertise you really have in all things crystal ballin' and shot-callin'.”

Lassiter opened his mouth to retort, and then he just closed it again, dropping from Spencer's face to his hands, which were expertly locating each painful area of his hand and either gently or firmly, depending on the muscle or bone structure, easing every bit of tightness and pain. He then moved on to his fingers, running each one through his own fingers before going over each knuckle, the tips of his fingers holding them and rolling them slowly in a circular motion. His gaze was focused down at Lassiter's hand, and Lassiter found that he'd been staring at Spencer's face for several long moments before managing to catch himself and realize again that, apparently, he was getting a pretty good hand massage from the doppelganger of the most annoying person in the world... one that was sleeping with his own doppelganger. 

He tried to pull his hand back again, starting to say that it was enough, but Spencer #2 held onto his wrist again, this time gripping his palm with his other hand. “Shhh, stop,” he admonished. “I know what I'm doing.”

That much was clear, but it wasn't the problem. There had never been much physical touching at all between himself and Spencer—not counting times he'd been reduced to manhandling the smart ass when he simply wouldn't leave after being told to—and here _this_ Spencer was, holding his hand and rubbing it in an entirely casual way, like he did it all the damn time. It was strange enough that a double of himself and of Spencer had fallen out of the goddamned mirrors, but did they really have to be like _that_? And to behave as if it was perfectly normal? This Spencer had just called him _Carlton_ , for god's sakes—he didn't think the Spencer he knew had ever done that unless he was taunting him. This Spencer probably called that version of himself Carlton all the time. He probably called him that when they—

“This is weird,” Lassiter said in a low voice, meaning all of it, but particularly what was happening right now. Spencer touching _him_ , his fingers warm and sure, applying just the right amount of pressure in just the right places. Spencer's other hand was still holding onto his wrist, not keeping him in place but just holding onto him, his other thumb moving back and forth over his skin. 

“No it's not,” Spencer #2 said nonchalantly, going back to the bunch of muscle under his thumb, which—goddamn it—felt really good. “I do this all the time. You from my world gets a lot of hand cramps from the shooting range, but you won't stop going. I keep telling you you're going to get arthritis and have The Claw permanently, but what do I know? I decided I'll mimic your Claw and it'll be our secret clubhouse signal.” He looked up again, both hands stilled but not letting him go yet. “Better?”

Lassiter flexed his hand, not looking at Spencer, but looking down to inspect his palm as if he'd loaned it out for a week to someone who usually returned books with bent covers and he'd just gotten it back. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No prob,” Spencer said, sounding pleased. Lassiter was about to pull his hand back when it suddenly rose toward Spencer's face, stopped, and Spencer finally released him. Lassiter looked at him questioningly and he shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “I always kiss your hand when I'm done. But you're a different you, huh? Guess you're not into that here.” He tilted his head slightly to one side, looking as if he wanted to say something, or to ask a question.

Lassiter didn't want to hear it. Nothing was happening around the vicinity of the building yet, so he used his newly relaxed hand, still warm from the massage and feeling loose but agile again, to start the car. “I'm into lunch,” he said abruptly, hoping that this version of Spencer was as distractible—particularly with food—as the version he knew.

It seemed he was—Spencer #2 sat up excitedly. “Taco taco taco taco,” he chanted, bouncing in his seat a little. “Wait, no! Do you like fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

“What, like a grilled cheese?” Lassiter asked, slightly disgusted.

“Yup!”

“No, that sounds horrible.”

Spencer beamed at him. “You love it, trust me—I brought some home once, and you did think it was a grilled cheese and tried to steal it. Then when you realized what it was and how _superbly_ the salty crunch goes with the sweet, melty filling, you stole it more and got addicted and now you actually have kind of a problem.” His grin widened as he remembered something Lassiter's other self had done or said regarding the monstrosity of a sandwich he was describing. Spencer #2 nodded decisively. “Let's go to the Nutter Butter Hutter. I mean, it's called The Peanut Hut, but I think my name gives it the zest it's been missing.”

“That seriously sounds gross,” Lassiter said, but he imagined the place would have to serve other things too. That there just proved the differences in worlds, or universes, or whatever had been going on to somehow create two (or more— _that_ was a terrifying thought) of each of them. Whatever his double in that world was like, including whatever nonsense or outright insanity that caused any version of him to be in any kind of a relationship with Shawn Spencer, _he_ would never eat something that sounded like the results of a ten-year-old unsupervised in a kitchen and out of cheese and Easy Bake Oven lightbulbs. Some things—and some people—just did not go well together, that was all. 

They arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes later. Spencer #2 was delighted when the girl that came to serve them recognized him—or recognized this world's Spencer, anyway—and confided that she would ring him with up the employee discount. Lassiter rolled his eyes as Spencer smiled and flirted with her, actually feeling a little more back on track now that he knew that at least Spencer was a charming conman in every incarnation. He ordered the fried peanut butter and jelly—“With extra fried!”—while Lassiter ordered sesame noodles with chicken. When their food arrived, he speared a piece of chicken on the tines of his fork and was about to dig in when he saw Spencer cram half of one of his sandwich triangles into his face and tilt his face up to the sky, sighing in complete satisfaction. He looked at the other half of the sandwich, which did look exactly like a grilled cheese on the outside—golden brown, a little greasy but crispy—but was leaking a mixture of melted peanut butter and grape jelly instead of American cheese. Spencer licked his thumb, where some peanut butter had squished out of the part of the sandwich he was still holding, and when he noticed Lassiter watching him, he grinned again. 

“Just like I remembered,” he said. “It's been awhile since I've been here, since Gus decided he was going to switch to almond butter and almond milk. That stuff's okay, but this is where the money lies.” He held out the half of sandwich he'd bitten into. “Try a bite?”

Lassiter made a face at him. “No thank you.”

“C'mon,” he wheedled. “You like it, hey Mikey!”

“No, I don't!” Lassiter said, annoyed. “ _I_ have never tried it. Look, I don't know what the hell is going on here, or how any of this is possible, but you need to get one thing straight. _I_ am not a continuation of—of whatever version of me you have in your world, just like _you_ are not the exact same irritating jackass I know that keeps screwing with my cases.” He watched Alternate-Universe-Spencer look at him solemnly and then put down his sandwich and look at him as if he was actually giving him undivided attention—which just went to prove his point: they were _not_ the same person. “You're very similar, yes, just like I'm sure I'm similar to your—your—um, version of me.”

“My boyfriend.”

“Whatever. The point is that no matter what you seem to think, I'm _not_ him. I'm me. There are differences—and I can assure you that probably a good portion of his life, and your memories of him, are not mine. You need to stop talking about us like we're the same person.”

“But you are,” Spencer said. He held up a hand when Lassiter glared at him. “Experiences and memories aside. I know there are differences, some itty bitty and some more blatant—like the fact that I'm with him, but you're not with anyone, let alone any sort of me. I get that, all right? I'll stop saying that things he did and things he likes are things you've done and liked if it weirds you out.” He paused thoughtfully, and Lassiter moodily stabbed another piece of chicken. “I guess I just want you to know that I know you,” he said finally. “The differences are teeny-weeny almost-can't-be-seeny, other than the obvious, which I think is mostly happenstance, not personality. I mean, the theory of parallel universes is that they run alongside each other with minute differences, right? The difference between ours just seems to be that we're together in mine but not in yours—which is a big time bummer for the me that lives here. I bet that accounts for almost all of the differences you're seeing.”

Lassiter gave him a doubtful look. “Sleeping with me makes you less annoying? Well, why didn't you say so? You pick up the check while I'll go grab your other self and give him something to shut him up.”

He regretted saying that when he saw this Spencer's eyes widen slightly, and the tip of his tongue poked out to wet his lips a little. “Just FYI,” he said after a moment. “That totally works.”

“Great,” Lassiter said sourly. That was an image he hadn't really needed, nor had he required the way it sprang into his mind so quickly. His gaze flicked toward Spencer #2 again, at his lips, which he was licking again after another gloppy mouthful of his sandwich. Lassiter dropped his eyes down to his food again and scooped a huge bite of noodles into his mouth, telling himself again that no matter what they said—and no matter how he'd seen _this_ Spencer straddling _that_ world's Carlton Lassiter and appealing to him in a way that was very like two people in a relationship—he simply couldn't square that they were sleeping together, that any part of him in some other universe was, as this Spencer had put it, “into that”. Into _him_. 

“You suuuuure you don't want to try a bite?” Spencer asked, holding out the second half of his sandwich. “It's reeeeeeally good. Sometimes things that don't seem like they'll work totally do. There's no rhyme or reason to it, so there's no use trying to sing along—just watch the popular TV show that's about absolutely nothing, dip your French fries in your Frosty, and _try this_.”

Lassiter huffed out another annoyed sigh. “If I do, will you shut up about it?”

“Honesty points say no, but at least I'll refrain from the 'I told you so' and stick with the 'Isn't this delicious? Aren't I right all the time? And amazing? And hot? Aren't _I_ delicious?'”

“I am _not_ tasting _you_ ,” Lassiter said, taking the sandwich and looking closely at it. 

“Your loss,” Spencer said lightly. “Well, and your Shawn's loss.”

“He's not _my_ anything.” Lassiter gave him a quick glare and then quickly took a bite of the sandwich, intending to pass it back and say, 'There!', having completed his side of the bargain and thus entitled to silence. However, the second his tongue started to swirl the odd combination of flavors in his mouth, he looked back down at the sandwich in surprise. He wasn't just surprised that it _was_ somehow delicious, and that he did like it, but that Spencer had been right. Maybe he did know him. Or some part of him. Or maybe all of him, who the fuck knew in this situation? What else did this Spencer know? He glanced over at him quickly and saw that he was smiling again, not looking self-satisfied in his victory, but simply happy that Lassiter did indeed like the sandwich, his eyes smiling just as much as his mouth. Lassiter tried to swallow the glob of peanut butter and bread in his mouth and it went down in a too-large clump, sticking to his throat.

He reached for his glass of water with one hand while pushing the rest of the sandwich at Spencer #2 with the other. He took several long swallows, feeling better and more collected. When he glanced back at Spencer, he saw that he was holding the sandwich, but hadn't eaten any more of it. As Lassiter looked at him, he held it out again. “Want the rest?” he asked.

“No, it's yours. And I have my own food,” he added.

“I was going to order more to go anyway—one for later and one for my Carlton. Here.” Spencer put the sandwich half on a napkin and pushed it over. “Trade you for half of your sesame chicken.”

Lassiter sighed and gave in, although he wasn't that hungry anymore. He took the fried peanut butter and jelly and pushed his noodles over. “Finish it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Lassiter picked up the sandwich and took another small bite. Yes, it was definitely strange—crispy, buttery, salty... sugary grape jelly and smooth peanut butter melted together—but the first taste hadn't been a fluke. He could see how another version of himself that had tried this would continue to eat it regularly. 

“Sweet,” Spencer said, gave him a smile, and dug in.

When the server came back, Spencer #2 did order two more fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to go, and Lassiter thought again how strange it sounded to him to hear his given name coming from him. “Do you always call him by his—by my—first name?” he asked. “The you that I know never does.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Well, not always—when Gus is around, or people from the PD, I still go with Lassie, which he's cool with.” Spencer paused. “You know the reason I started calling you that is just because I like nicknames, right? I—the Shawn from here doesn't do it to piss you off. He does it for the same reason he calls your partner 'Jules'.”

“Yeah, well, her nickname isn't demeaning.”

“Aw, c'mon, it's just 'Lassie ', not 'Assiter'.”

“It's the name of a dog!”

“A great dog! A dog that saved a kid how many times? Plus, you're loyal, and you love it when I rub your tummy and give you a nice _bone_.”

“Spencer!”

“My bad, my bad,” he conceded, but he was grinning again. “That's him, not you. Anyway, I don't call him that all the time—when we're alone, I call him Carlton. And he calls me Shawn.”

Lassiter watched him scoop up the last bite of noodles, thinking about being comfortable enough with the Spencer he knew to actually refer to him as Shawn. About hearing that Spencer calling him by his real name. He wondered about that other world's version of himself, about how it had happened that he was with this version of Spencer, how they had gotten to the point of being easy enough with each other to be happy.

“Are you happy?” he asked suddenly.

Spencer #2 looked up at him with his eyebrows raised. “Sure?” he ventured. “I mean, I'd like to get back home to where we belong, but at least I'm not alone here, and as long as he's with me, I'm good. Although it is worrisome that we're here to begin with. Overall I'm pretty okay, thanks for asking?” 

“That wasn't—I mean—are you _happy_ ,” he said, trying to clarify without having to say it. Spencer squinted at him slightly, and although he probably would have arrived there in a second, Lassiter gave it to him anyway. “With him. Being with him, your... version of me.”

“Yes,” Spencer said immediately. “It's not all sunshine and roses, I mean. We fight, we argue, we sometimes hid my bike keys and threatened to call my dad if I was trying to investigate a case and got _slightly_ too reckless—”

“Would that even work?”

Spencer raised an eyebrow at him. “Maybe,” he said. “But I wouldn't advise trying it on your-world-Shawn. It only _sometimes_ worked with me because he has special boyfriend privileges, which actually include that 'sleeping with someone makes me less annoying' thing you mentioned earlier, along with the 'all efforts to be honest at all times' policy, and absolutely no experiments in the house, not counting fun and fancy free time in the bedroom.” He paused. “But yeah, we're happy. I know it probably doesn't make any sense to you, but I'm not sure I can explain it. You should maybe talk to him about it.” He paused again. “Although he did tell me that he finds it super weird to talk to you and that he's still not one hundred percent sure that you're not a cyborg.”

“He's the cyborg,” Lassiter said dismissively. “This is my world—Spencer-that-isn't-you and I were here first.”

“True,” Spencer #2 said. “But if you cut us, we bleed blue. Which actually does sound like something a cyborg would do.” He suddenly looked excited. “Oh, dude, I can't wait to tell him that he's Robocop. That makes me Nancy Allen, that sweet Officer Lewis.”

Being that Lassiter had had something of the same thought Spencer had mentioned—that it actually gave him the willies to be around that other version of himself that _was_ him, but who moved and spoke and thought independently—he didn't think the manly heart-to-heart over boyfriends/potential boyfriends was going to happen. “I'll take your word for it,” he said. “I'm just... having a hard time understanding how it's even possible, no matter the universe or whatever else.”

“That we're happy?” Spencer smiled again and shrugged. “I dunno. There's _something_ there—I'm pretty sure if you deny that, your pants are going to burst into flame, which is a direct violation of the fire code, and we'll be invited to leave before my sammiches are done.”

 _Something._ Maybe. But what? He didn't know, and never thought more that he never would.

“Like I said, we're not, like, over the moon every day of the week and twice on Sunday.” He paused. “Four or five times a week at most.” He grinned when Lassiter rolled his eyes again. “But there are ways—and means—and we make it work. We give and take. He knows how I work and lets me do my thing, and I bring him evidence before I ask him to move on a case unless I or someone else is in danger. He's more tolerant of my wily ways, I behave myself a little more—”

“You don't lie to him,” Lassiter muttered.

Spencer #2 paused again. “No, I don't,” he said. “But I also trust him, and he trusts me. It didn't happen overnight, but we got there, and now... yes, Carlton. We're happy together.”

Lassiter forced himself to look up at this Spencer, this Shawn, the version of him that another part of himself, somewhere, trusted and wanted to be with, enjoyed spending time with. The one another Carlton Lassiter kissed, held, touched... made love with. Spencer's eyes were soft as he looked back, and Lassiter thought it likely that he knew what he was thinking. Psychic or not, the man knew things; his eyes were too fast and too deep. 

“Does he love you?” he asked.

Spencer smiled. “Yeah, he loves me. A lot. And I love him.”

Lassiter dropped his eyes down to the napkin with fried sandwich crumbs on it again. He had nothing to say to that. Thankfully, the server came by with a white cardboard box containing Spencer's to-go order, and they paid and left the restaurant. When they got back to the police department, Lassiter let Spencer come inside with him while he reported to Chief Vick that he hadn't been able to locate the witness. He left Spencer sitting in the chair next to his desk (“You stay here and don't touch anything,” he'd ordered. Spencer had sat back, crossed his ankles, smiled, and said, “Sure.” As Lassiter paused outside Vick's door, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Spencer #2 was still just waiting for him, looking around but making no sign of either getting up or rifling through any of the things laying on Lassiter's desk, while Spencer #1 would have seen the order as an engraved invitation to snoop) and went in to see his chief. 

Vick had a grim look on her face; she informed Lassiter that an hour ago, Officers McNab and Nunez had responded to a call about an altercation in a mall nearby, and an ambulance had also been dispatched. He was about to ask what that had to do with him when she went on to say that twenty minutes ago, a county medical examiner's van had arrived on the scene and that it was now a murder investigation. According to mall security, a man had approached a woman perusing the Mirror Maze, a shop that exclusively sold mirrors, both large and expensive ones and small decorative ones. The clerk at the register had heard raised voices, including a man's voice pleading and a woman's shouting to leave her alone, and then there had been a tremendous smash; the clerk had then come around the corner to find the man unconscious, halfway through the frame of a large mirror, many broken shards of glass sticking into his body and a pool of blood growing on the floor. The woman was nowhere to be seen, but almost every mirror in that corner was also broken.

“Get up,” Lassiter said to Spencer as he came back into the bullpen fast. “We've got another case, and I'm wanted on the scene now.” Without a word, Spencer jumped to his feet and followed, sliding into the front seat of the car and snapping his seat belt on. He looked excited, watching Lassiter expectantly as he flipped his siren on, and because he was just continuing to wait instead of either demanding to be let in on the case or chattering annoyingly, Lassiter told him. He probably should know, just in case. “A man was killed in some house-of-mirrors store at the Rockway Mall,” he said. “Sounds like he went after some woman and she shoved him back, almost all the way through one of those full-size jobs that go on the backs of closet doors. There were other broken mirrors all around, but no other blood on the glass, and she fled the scene, although nobody saw her.”

“Whoa,” Spencer said softly. “Do you think it could have to do with...?”

“Don't know.” Lassiter pressed his lips together as he blew a red light. He debated calling the other Spencer and his other self, but they were supposed to be looking into it through other avenues, and while he thought it unlikely that they were making any progress, he didn't really want to deal with either of them. He glanced at Spencer #2, highly disapproving of what he was about to say, but as much as he hated it, he couldn't deny that it _had_ worked, more than once, and it could possibly really help now. “Think you can go ahead and pretend to have a 'psychic vision' so you can look around and see if you can find anything? If I'm going to bring you on the scene with me as a consultant, that _is_ your cover, no matter how stupid it is and what it is you actually do.”

“Sure, no prob. That's what my Carlton has me do when I'm working a case with him.”

“Fine,” Lassiter said shortly. “I'm going to look at the body. I'm also going to instruct the security guard and the store manager to show you any surveillance tapes, and when I'm done, I'll meet you there.”

“Okay.” Spencer paused, and then he frowned thoughtfully. “A man is pushed back through the same kind of mirror I came through, but he didn't go anywhere—he just died. All of the other mirrors broken around them, but no blood except his, and the mystery mistress is melted away. I wonder if _she_ went through.”

Lassiter wanted to roll his eyes, but it was getting harder to not take his own case—or the case of his and Spencer's doubles—seriously, since they were seriously in their world and _seriously_ needed to find out how, and why, and most importantly: how to get back. “If she did, she might have been taken,” he said. “The cashier heard the dead man pleading and the woman shouting for someone to leave her alone.”

“So maybe she was pulled back somewhere, and whatever it was tried to pull the man too, but he got stuck or the spell failed, and then the mirror-as-a-doorway turned back to real glass and cut him up?”

It made sense, as much as any of this did. “Let's start with that as our working theory until we find out more.”

“Okay. We should call my Carlton and other-me, let them know.”

“Not yet,” Lassiter said quickly, imagining trying to deal with two Spencers sniffing around what was supposed to be his crime scene and offering bullshit theories. _But two Spencers may help, because he_ does _do something... just because I don't know exactly what doesn't mean he doesn't see things I don't, figure out things I can't, and solve crimes I haven't_ , he thought sourly. Still, it would be more than difficult to explain the suddenness of apparent twin Spencers (and his own apparent twin that he'd never told anyone about, who was also a detective within the same city), and if it came to it, they could easily tell the other Spencer and the other Lassiter about it later, get their input on it when they met up that night. “Let's just start the investigation ourselves,” he said. “They're working on the psychic side; we'll work on the police side.”

“Okay,” Spencer said reluctantly. He clearly wanted to call the other Lassiter anyway, but Lassiter couldn't tell it was in a police case sense or a boyfriend sense. Probably both. He looked doubtful, and Lassiter wondered if he would try to find a chance to get out of his earshot and call the others anyway.

“We'll call them when we're done with the scene,” he reiterated as he pulled up behind a patrol car with its lights flashing and put his own car into park. He turned the car off but didn't jump out right away, turning and looking at Spencer, into his eyes to gauge his sincerity. He looked serious—he hadn't made a ton of wisecracks, he was still sitting there instead of vaulting out and immediately making a spectacle of himself, he had agreed to let Lassiter take the lead and follow his orders. “Are you going to help me on this?” Lassiter asked him softly. He almost said, _are you going to be good?_ because that was the phrase used with him earlier, which had seemed to work, but he had also recognized that as relationship-language. It wasn't his place, and he knew that.

“Yeah,” Spencer said. “Just tell me what you want.”

 _What do I want?_ “Just... follow me in, and when I introduce you as a consultant to the case, have a minor— _very small_ —vision or whatever, something to get a little bit of attention. Not the entire mall, got it? I'll have them show you any tapes of what happened and then I'll come see the tapes, too. I'll tell you about the body and the scene, you tell me if there's anything you think I need to know, and we'll go from there.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Lassiter said back, and he got out of the car. _Here we go_ , he thought.


	10. Chapter 10

Trying to locate Lady Bela was a no-go; Shawn and Other-Lassie tried to track her down at her home and then at her shop, but her house was empty, and no one knew where she was. Shawn was disappointed—the more he thought about it, the more he'd decided that there _must_ be some people with real magic hanging around, and he was excited to meet them and see what they could do. Other-Lassie was just annoyed, and although Shawn could tell that part of it was due to not making any headway on the case, a bigger part was how much he wanted to go home and how huge the possibilities—and the implications—were. 

When Shawn pulled back up to the Psych office and got out of the car, Other-Lassie came around to the driver's side and held out his hand for the keys. “I need some time to clear my head,” he said.

Shawn reluctantly handed them over. “Where are you going?”

“Why?”

“I just... wanted to know what to tell other-me, if he asked where you were.”

“Oh.” Other-Lassie thought for a second and then he gently nudged Shawn out of the open car door so that he could get in. “Shooting range,” he said. “I'll come back to your apartment later. Give me your phone.”

Shawn dug in his pocket and handed it over. He felt vaguely uneasy, and he didn't want to let the other Lassie go off without him, but it wasn't like the man was _his_ boyfriend and he had any rights to claim concern or just... wanting to be around him. “The Psych number is in there,” he said. “I guess... call if you need anything? We'll probably be here.”

“Fine.”

Shawn watched as he shoved the Blueberry's seat back all the way again, started it up, and headed down the street. He sighed and went into the office, which was empty and silent. He sat behind his desk and leaned the chair back with his hands behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling and wondering what would happen if they really couldn't find anything out, couldn't reverse what had happened, and Other-Lassie and Other-Shawn _didn't_ make it back home. Would they just have to stay here? Would they stay _here_ here, in Santa Barbara, or would they just go somewhere else? It wasn't like good ol' Babs was a one-horse town or anything, but both Shawn and Lassiter had been in the papers fairly frequently, and while it wouldn't be immediately noticeable if they had doubles running around the city, Other-Lassie probably wouldn't be content with life at all if he couldn't do police work of some kind, and eventually Lassiter would be asked how he could be in two places at once. Other-Lassie wouldn’t be able to get hired on at another department in another city or state, either, seeing as his fingerprints would show him as currently employed by the SBPD.

Shortly after six, Other-Shawn and Lassie pulled up in front of the Psych office in Lassie's car. Shawn had been watching _Supernatural_ in an effort to glean something useful about spells or dimension-switching or even clones that got to hook up with people that didn't like their original-world selves, but, as was often the case, Sam and Dean simply killed monsters and had a lot of daddy issues, which wasn't exactly helpful. There were a couple of episodes about Skin-changers, and Shawn made a mental note to steal Gus's silver crucifix and find an inconspicuous way to touch his doppelganger with it, but he had _seen_ his double come through a mirror with his own eyes, and all he wanted was to go back home, not to rob any banks or kill anyone, so that was probably a lost cause. He still planned to try if he could, though, because _holy shit magic was real_ , and he couldn't entirely discount anything now until proven otherwise. 

When Lassiter and Other-Shawn came into the office, Lassie looked grim and Other-Shawn looked excited; Shawn muted the TV and set the bowl of popcorn that had been in his lap on the table. He recognized the look in Other-Shawn's eyes; it meant he was on to something (or that he thought he was), and that, added to the thoughtful way Lassie's eyes were gazing out of the window as he stopped in the doorway, made Shawn assume they'd had a more productive day than he and Other-Lassie had.

“Hi,” he said eagerly. “What's the haps?”

“Murder in a House Of Mirrors!” Other-Shawn said brightly. “We think it has to do with whatever happened to us.”

Shawn looked at Lassie, surprised that he would be immediately on the train for something that would have sounded like screaming nonsense a few days ago. Lassiter frowned a little. “It _might_ have to do with it,” he said slowly. “We can't make that assumption now because we don't really know what's happened with you in the first place.”

“He's being cautious and police-y,” Other-Shawn explained when Shawn glanced at him. “I _know_ it has something with it. Check it out: Mirrors broken, a dead man, and a missing woman—not just missing as in 'nobody knows where she is', but she _was_ seen somewhere and then she literally disappeared. I think she was taken through one of the mirrors, and when whoever it was tried to take the man that was with her, the spell stopped working or he got stuck in the doorway between worlds and the glass turned real again and stabbed him everywhere and he gooshed out under just that mirror, which explains why none of the other mirrors had blood around them even if they were broken.”

“Whoa.” Shawn tried to picture it. “And this time, other people could see that the mirrors were broken?”

“Yup.”

“That's weird.” He glanced at Lassie again. “If no one else could see that the mirror in the interview room at the station was broken.”

“The whole thing is weird,” Lassie said sourly. “The security tapes were corrupted, and we couldn't get anything from them.”

Other-Shawn frowned and walked to the doorway that led to the back door. “Where's Carlton?” he asked, coming back into the main room.

Shawn shrugged. “Shooting range. He'll come back to my place later. He was super annoyed when the guy you and me talked to yesterday turned snotty and wouldn't really help us, and then we couldn't find that woman who said she was going to set up a séance to look into it, so he got all bummed.” He nodded to the cordless phone in its cradle. “I gave him my phone. You can call him if you want, but he might not hear it if he's telling a target sheet to make his day.”

“Okay.” Other-Shawn picked it up. “Speed-dial one?”

“Yup.” Shawn watched as he hit the button and then went outside, plopping down on the bench and setting the phone to his ear. He looked at Lassie again and saw that he was also watching Other-Shawn, an indiscernible expression on his face. Shawn wanted to say something, but he didn't know what; when Lassie dragged his eyes away from the window and glanced at the TV briefly before looking at Shawn, he raised his eyebrows at him, hoping Lassie would be able to think of something. Then he did, but it wasn't anything close to what Shawn had been hoping for.

“I'm going back to the PD,” he said. “Call me if you find anything out.” He paused. “Oh... and if Chief Vick or anyone else asks, you're on the mirror-murder case because you followed me into the station this morning and told me I'd be getting a case involving mirrors or smashed glass. I let you come with because it was specific enough to what she assigned me—and O'Hara is out for the week, so I'm on my own—and you agreed to consult unofficially.”

“Okay,” Shawn said. “Is there anything else I can do? Or—” he gestured to the window, to the back of Other-Shawn's head, “—that we can do? I guess try to check more, uh, other psychics?”

“Sure, whatever.” Lassiter rolled his eyes. He turned to go, and then he stopped and looked back at Shawn. He seemed about to say something, but when Shawn raised his eyebrows again to encourage him to go on, Lassie just shook his head and left. 

Shawn sighed. He watched out the window as Lassie got into his car; Other-Shawn ended the call he'd been on and waved to Lassie, who seemed now to be trying to ignore him as he backed out of his parking space and headed down the road. Other-Shawn came back inside the Psych office and put the phone down, and then he flopped in one of the chairs.

“What's on?” he asked, and then he nodded as a blonde demon girl silently attempted to kick the shit out of some witches. “Supernatural—I thought of that, there are so many episodes with witches and spells. Any ideas brewing?”

Shawn reluctantly shook his head. “You're not a Skin-changer, are you?”

“Nah. If I was, I'd probably be a little taller.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I'd probably be forced to change into Gus a few times just to mess with him, too.”

Shawn snorted. “Shyeah, that's kind of a given. Did you—were you able to get a hold of your Lassie?”

“Uh-huh. He said he'd come back to your apartment in a couple of hours.”

Shawn wanted to point out that he already knew that, that Other-Lassie had told him that first, but he also wanted to ask, _What else did he say? Is he feeling better now? Did he mention me? Did he tell you he loves you?_ and none of that was really necessary. Except that he couldn't help feeling like it was. 

“So,” Other-Shawn said, tapping his fingers on his knee. “He has Gus's wheels, so we're stuck here?”

“I have my bike,” Shawn said. “But it'll probably look weird if we're both on it.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess you would.” He smiled fondly, like he was remembering something that no longer was, and Shawn was surprised again. 

“You don't have one?”

“Used to,” Other-Shawn said. “I got into a couple of itty-bitty accidents while working cases—one where I flipped and sprained my knee, one where I was being chased and I ran into the back of an El Camino and ended up in the bed and got a couple of cracked ribs—and everyone started being all concerned for my safety. Dad had it impounded once when he found out I had unpaid tickets, but then Carlton got it back for me. That was before the guys smuggling drugs through the dog kennel figured out I was on to them and started trying to kill me. After I landed in the El Camino, even he said it was too dangerous to use a 'crotch-rocket' as a mode of transportation. I tried to blow him off, figuratively and literally, then I chortled about 'crotch-rocket' for five weeks.”

Shawn smirked. _Crotch-rocket._

Other-Shawn saw him and smirked back. “Then there was a messy accident in the news, the kind where you peel the victims off the pavement with a shovel, and even though the two on the bike that died weren't wearing helmets and I always did, that was about the end of it. Since then, the only crotch-rocket I've been riding is in the bedroom.” He smiled wistfully.

Shawn appreciated the innuendo, but he was also having trouble wrapping his head around the focus of the story. “Lassie was concerned, so you just... gave up your _bike_?”

Other-Shawn shrugged. “I didn't want to, but then he bought me a car. After that, it was only good manners to drive it.”

“He _bought you_ a _car?_ ”

“Not like, a new one... it was from a police auction. A body was found in the trunk a few years ago.” Other-Shawn made a face. “I just don't use the trunk. I used some of Henry's solder and plugged up the keyhole.”

Shawn was still stuck on the idea of Lassiter buying him a car. “How long were you together when Lassie bought it for you?”

“Mmm, like, six months? It was about two months before we moved in together.” Other-Shawn smiled. “We're in it for the long haul, I think. He's got a pretty crappy romantic history, and so do I, but... I dunno. I think we work, or at least for us we do. His ex-wife hated the cop hours and the dangerous job, but I don't mind. There's always another case, and I usually get to help, and he lets me do my own thing when he's off doing his. And I'm not bored.” He looked at Shawn. “You know?”

Shawn nodded slowly. One of his last sort-of-serious relationships had ended when a girl he was seeing in Washington State wanted him to move in with her and get a puppy and a bunch of crap like that, and although he'd reluctantly stuck his duffel bag in her closet and went there every night, he'd gotten more and more restless until he'd found himself kissing her goodbye and then racing down the driveway while she threw shards of his broken DVDs in the street. (And then there was Abigail—who Other-Shawn wouldn't have even been with, if he got with Other-Lassie that long ago.) He'd always gotten bored or antsy. But with Lassie? Other-Shawn seemed happy. He was _settled_ , by Jove. Living with someone else and talking about _the long haul_. Did that mean forever? The idea was terrifying... and exhilarating. 

“Okay, how?” Shawn asked now, thinking that it was past damn time that he found out. “Tell me how it happened.” _Tell me what I missed_ , he wanted to add.

“How we got together?” Other-Shawn grinned hugely. “I dunno if I should tell you. How do you know it's not in your future, and I'd be spoiling it?”

Shawn pointed at him. “Huh-uh, Buster. You owe me that story. Besides,” he added, his finger and his voice faltering. “How do I not know that it's not in my past, and I just... missed my chance?”

Other-Shawn looked sympathetic, and Shawn kind of hated him for it. “I don't think you did,” he said. “I mean, how do we know it has to start the same way? Maybe it's still going to happen for you, but in an entirely different way?” He raised his hands, palms up. “Maybe this weird shit is _your_ start.”

“I kinda doubt that,” Shawn said sullenly. “Seeing as he can't stand to be around me even more since this happened.” He paused. “He can stand you, though. He actually brought you to his crime scene?”

“I was kind of there when he found out about it, and it _does_ sound related to whatever happened to us,” Other-Shawn said quickly.

“Anything else happen today?”

Other-Shawn shrugged. “We looked for a witness that didn't show, we had lunch... Um, I guess I gave him a hand massage and he asked a bunch of questions about our relationship.”

Shawn blinked. “A _hand_ massage?” In his experience, that could mean more than one thing.

“As in, the actual hand kind,” Other-Shawn clarified helpfully. “He gets cramps from spending too much time at the shooting range. When we were all staked out today he kept rubbing at his hand, so I took care of it for him, no big. I do it all the time.”

“...Was there a happy ending?” Shawn asked, feeling a little flustered at the idea of holding Lassie's hand and rubbing his palm, stroking those long fingers. 

Other-Shawn snorted. “There would've been if it was my Carlton. So, no.”

“And he actually let you?”

“He was weirded out at first, but then he realized I that I knew what I was doing and it was helping, so he relaxed and let me be handsy in the good way.”

Shawn frowned at the wall. “What kind of questions was he asking?” Then he got an idea. “Same as me? How you got together?”

“No, actually,” Other-Shawn said thoughtfully. “He didn't ask about that part at all. He was mostly curious about... how well we get along, I guess? He wanted to know why I use his first name, if we were happy... if his other self loves me.”

“Why would he want to know that?” Shawn asked slowly, although his heart had sped up.

Other-Shawn shrugged. “He _really_ hates it that he doesn't know how you solve cases,” he said gently. “He can't square the idea that some version of himself is with a version of you because he can't see past how much you're lying to him about who you are and what you can do.”

“I have to!” Shawn said, feeling wounded and panicked. “I'm in too deep now.”

“No, you're not,” Other-Shawn said seriously. “Look, I thought so too, right? But then...” He trailed off again and smiled. “Okay, you want to know what happened, how it all started? Bugs Bunny.”

Shawn stared at him. “What?”

Other-Shawn's grin widened. “I just went for it, man. He was mad one night about me getting in his way and solving a case and then telling Chief Vick that a dead person led me to her killer. I gave my statement and was getting ready to leave the station, but then he cornered me in the hall and got in my face about how I needed to tell him how I _really_ knew. I stuck to my story, and he was getting angrier, and closer, and then suddenly I realized that he was leaning down over me so close that his face was almost touching mine, and he looked mad enough to grab me and throw me against the wall. I was looking up into his eyes, not even really listening to what he was saying, just thinking about how hot that would be and how much I wanted him, and also how pissed off he was, and then... I just got a picture of Bugs Bunny giving someone a big o'l smackeroo to distract them from sticking a shotgun up his cotton tail.”

Shawn was still staring at his double, mesmerized, barely aware that his mouth was hanging open. The times he had thought of the exact same cartoon scene, the fact that he had thought of it the very same day that all of their worlds had collided... and now his other self from another world was talking about it in his _how we got together_ story. Sweet baby Jesus.

“So then,” Other-Shawn went on, “I just went for it. I didn't even think—I just rose up on my toes a little and kissed him on the mouth.” He paused and his smile softened as he relived it. “A second later, in the time after I'd done it and before he reacted, I just figured that if he got mad, I'd say that it was the first thing I thought of to get him to back off and that it didn't mean anything. But it did, and he knew it.”

“What did he do?” Shawn asked. His chest felt squeezed and his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“He stepped back and looked at me, surprised... and then he thought I might have been just fucking with him. All the times I flirted with him and teased him and touched him and even the time I sat on his lap? He seriously either didn't notice or thought I was just making fun of him. So when I kissed him, it could have just been a bluff. So... he called it.” Other-Shawn grinned again. “He told me later that when I kissed him was the first time he ever really saw me, you know, as a whole person. Like before I had been an empty shack, nothing worth looking twice at or investigating further, because he glanced at me once and thought he'd seen all there was to see. But then it was like he realized I was actually an old mansion that was like a maze, full of dark hallways and rooms he could get lost in. All he had to do was turn on some lights and start exploring... and I could be _home_.” Other-Shawn snorted a little. “That probably sounds totally schmoopy and lame, but hearing it from someone like him while he was holding me in bed... that's how I knew that this could be for real. For good. Like... forever.”

It did sound schmoopy, Shawn thought, trying to not be resentful and failing. Then he remembered Other-Lassie saying _staggering, mind-blowing_ , and _astounding_ when it came to Other-Shawn's memory and deductive abilities, and he felt sulky. Apparently he _had_ missed his chance, or at least he'd missed the in his other-self had gotten when he'd gone for it while Shawn himself had chickened out. Lassie would never say those things to him, not now. 

“What did he do?” he asked again. “When you kissed him Ain't-I-A-Stinker style.”

Other-Shawn licked his lips. “He backed up and looked at me with his eyes all suspicious, checking to see if I was smirking at him, or anything else that would indicate that I was just playing. But I wasn't, and when I saw that he was looking for it, I just... I stood really still, hardly breathing. I figured he was going to do one of three things.”

“Punch you in the face,” Shawn interrupted, counting on his fingers. “Throw a Donald Duck tantrum, or just turn around and leave and pretend it never happened.”

“Exactly,” Other-Shawn said smoothly. “I was putting my money on the about-face and the denial, myself. You?”

“Broken nose,” Shawn said, and lightly touched his own, wincing.

Other-Shawn nodded thoughtfully. “I probably would have thought that one too if I'd had any other time to think about it. Of course, then I probably never would have done it.”

“Uh-huh,” Shawn said dully. 

“That one's the worst one, I guess, because yelling or leaving isn't so... final. I could've yelled back, and I could've brought it up again some time to see if we could talk or if he'd just leave again. A knuckle sandwich is a pretty good indicator that the answer is 'no,' and, 'not ever'.” Other-Shawn's mouth quirked in sympathy again. “And that would be why you never went for it?”

“Winner winner chicken dinner.”

Other-Shawn's face brightened. “I feel like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight. Are you hungry?”

Shawn opened his mouth to say _only always_ , and then he closed it slowly when he realized that he wasn't, actually, not now. “In a little while,” he said. “Tell the rest.”

“Ah, yeah, okay. Well, after he looked at me to see if I was serious, and I stood really still and kept my mouth shut to show that I was... he didn't do any of the things I thought he might.” He grinned again. “Which is one of the reasons why we actually work pretty well. He's not nearly as boring and predictable as Gus tried to convince me he was right after I met him and started thinking about him. He's _really_ smart, and he can be damn creative, and now that he knows how I think, he's really good at throwing me curveballs and keeping me on my toes. I don't have the chance to get bored. In almost a year, all the times I think I have him down... dude, I don't, not completely. It's amazing. I almost never have bad dreams anymore, I don't have nearly as much trouble focusing or sleeping—and when I do, he takes care of me. He's kept me more grounded than anything in my whole life.”

If Other-Shawn didn't stop rubbing Shawn's face in it, there was soon going to be a big dish of generic cherry-cough-syrup-flavored gelatin-style dessert that he was going to get _his_ face rubbed in. Shawn made a mental note to stop by the dollar store on his way home tonight, just in case.

“Like I said, I was putting my money on him just leaving and pretending it never happened,” Other-Shawn went on after Shawn didn't say anything for a long moment. “He doesn't like anyone or anything wasting his time, and he doesn't care if it's not tactful or whatever—he'll just turn around and leave in the middle of a crime scene if he thinks he has everything he needs and a witness is blathering about what made him turn down the alley so that he found the hooker's body.” He paused. “But then he later tells me that he left because he suspected the witness _because_ of the unnecessary blathering and details, and he didn't want to give that away, so he just left to get a warrant since he already knew he wanted one and didn't need to waste time listening to the rest of the story. Of course, he's also gotten up and left his mom's anniversary dinner because he was bored and his sister was being annoying and he had work to do back here.”

Shawn snorted and thought of the time Juliet had come outside the PD just as he was arriving, looking for her partner; she'd just been talking to him about how she'd gotten interested in becoming a detective, and then he wasn't at his desk anymore. Although it was close to time for his shift to be over, he hadn't said goodnight to her or told her where he was going, and she was mystified. Shawn hadn't the heart to tell her he'd just seen Lassiter driving calmly away. “Yup, that sounds like Lassie.”

“He hates being embarrassed—he takes everything personally and gets super pissy, and then he'll either deny it or get really mad, so if he thought I was yanking his chain and it embarrassed him, leaving and acting like he never even saw me that night would probably have been a good guess. If I tried to bring it up, he'd think I was rubbing his face in it and _then_ he might've thrown me down a flight of stairs, or followed me until he caught me doing something arrest-worthy and then put the cuffs on me, totally not in a hot way.” Other-Shawn reconsidered. “Okay, it still would've been hot, just much less so when I was actually brought up on charges and fun time was over.”

Damn, but his other self could ramble. Shawn didn't think he was nearly this annoying when people were trying to get information out of him, but it was something to think about later—now, he needed to try to get Other-Shawn back on topic. “So he thought you might've been messing with him, or bluffing, and he called it... how?”

Other-Shawn smiled again. “He stepped back closer to me, put one hand on the side of my face and tilted it up so that I was looking all the way up at him, and then he kissed me. Like... _really_. I was sort of shocked when I realized what he was doing, so I opened my mouth without thinking about it, and I barely got a breath in before his tongue was in my mouth and I was holding on to him just so I could stay standing up.”

Shawn imagined being kissed by Lassie like that and fought the urge to shift in his chair. “Then what did you do?”

“Pfft,” Other-Shawn scoffed. “What could I do? I was holding on to him by his arms, and when he tried to back off and stop kissing me, I grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him down again. Then he, like, shoved me back against the wall, and I thought for a second that grabbing him a second time was too much, and he was mad, but he wasn't. He pressed up against me so hard that I could barely move, so hard that I could feel _all_ of him, especially the part that told me he wasn't done with me at all but just getting started.” He smiled fondly with the memory for a moment, and then he snorted. “And then he put both hands on my shoulders to make me stay against the wall, but he backed up, so that I couldn't grab him again. I wanted to—I mean, I wanted _everything_ —but that's when he told me to go home, and he turned around and went back up the hall. I didn't see him when I left, but the next day I went back to the station and spent more time staring at him than trying to convince Chief Vick that I am indispensable and non-disposable and she should give me my choice of cases because who really knows which one I'm going to get that feeling about?”

“You didn't try to go over to his place that night?”

“Nah, I was too, um, twitterpated.”

Shawn thought of a scene from _Bambi_ and thought that that probably was an appropriate word, but likely not the one his double had intended. “Flabbergasted?” he suggested. Both were excellent words.

“Both,” Other-Shawn said. “On one hand, I didn't know if he was trying to fuck with me back, or if _he_ meant it and it wasn't just revenge for me messing with him—and on the other, I seriously never thought that he'd actually do that, so I had no idea what to think for at least a couple of hours. Anyway, I decided the next morning to just go see him and see what happened, go from there. So, he noticed what I was doing, which was trying to figure out how to get more from him now that we'd both taken another step, and he surprised me again. He blatantly ignored me while he was working, and I was hanging around and hiding from Chief Vick so she wouldn't kick me out after telling me they had no cases for me, and I started to think, 'Okay, maybe he _was_ just revenge-messing with me.' I got kinda bummed and went outside to leave, and there he was outside, on the bench in front of my bike. When he saw me, he stood up, and before I could say anything he just told me outright that he was interested, but he wouldn't consider me as a viable dating candidate unless he knew that he could trust me.”

Shawn's shoulders slumped a little. Trust. It was overrated. If only Lassie could trust that he could trust him instead of requiring evidence that he was trustworthy. It kind of negated the point of the trust. 

“He said that he knew I was really intelligent,” Other-Shawn went on, “and that he was impressed with how many cases I solved, and that he also knew I _did_ solve them—that I didn't outsource the intel or anything—but that the psychic thing was flat-out bullshit and he couldn't even try to be with someone who seriously claimed they had magical powers. I didn't say anything to that, because I _wanted_ to tell him the truth—I had ever since I saw him at Tom Blair's Pub and he was all drunk and told me that I used some of the most impressive deductive reasoning he'd ever seen—but I was afraid of what he'd do after that. Like, arresting me for fraud, and then getting Gus and my dad on it as accomplices, all the cases I consulted on going back to trial and murders getting to walk free, yanno. So... he saw that I wanted to but that it wasn't just self-preservation that was holding me back, and he said that he was going to a bar that night for a few drinks to unwind... and that if I wanted to join him—if I had anything to tell him—he'd be willing to listen.”

“So you went, and you told him the truth? Just like that?”

Other-Shawn snorted again. “Hell no, operator—give me number _wine_. In vino veritas, mi amigo. I did go, and he surprised me yet again by not immediately jumping down my throat about it. He gave me time. We had a few drinks, we talked about movies, he actually paid attention to me and everything I said. We had a pretty good conversation for two dudes dancing around a topic while sitting on bar stools. Then, after I'd had four drinks and he'd had two—on top of whatever he'd had before I got there—he suggested we move to a booth. I was still nervous, but nowhere near what I would have been without a few, which of course had been the plan.”

“Sneaky,” Shawn said. Maybe Lassie really was a lot more devious than he let on.

Other-Shawn shrugged. “It worked. So, we moved... and when we were sitting across from each other, I tried to stack some pretzels into a tower while avoiding eye contact, and he finally went, 'Is there anything you want to tell me, Shawn?' And when I looked up at him, I just... lost. Or gave up, I don't know. His tone of voice was actually... non-demanding. Patient? Like, he wasn't ordering me to tell him, which he'd always done before, he was just asking me to. And I was drunk, and the way he kissed me the day before...” He smiled again. “I barely remembered Gus and my dad and what could happen if he decided my confession was arrest-worthy. I just wanted him to kiss me again, to tell me that what I could do was impressive and awesome. So, I just... I told him. Everything.”

“And he thought it was okay?” This was the main thing that kept tripping Shawn up. After all this time, he just couldn't imagine that Lassie would think his lying and defrauding the police department was hunky and/or dory. Then, Other-Shawn had already been with Lassie for close to a year—all of which had been time Shawn himself had still been lying to Lassie and teasing him, messing with him, while Other-Lassie was learning how to take Other-Shawn seriously, exploring his mind and his body. Falling in love with him.

“Kinda. After I explained about my memory, and being naturally hyper-observant, and how Dad taught me to use deductive reasoning in all his training for me to be a cop, he just looked at me for a long time. Then he told me that I should have just told him all of that in the first place, when he started questioning me about the tips I called in. I pointed out that it's kind of hard to prove immediately when you're being treated as a suspect and nearly getting arrested; he told me I was being a smart ass, I told him he was being a dick, and—later he told me this was just because of him being drunk as well—he said he guessed that meant we could probably fit with each other.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows in surprise—Lassie actually saying that? He pictured it and started to snicker while Other-Shawn nodded and smirked back at him.

“Yeah, that was funny. I started snickering and said something about how flexible I am when it comes to fitting in things, he smiled a little and just looked at me... then he said I should've been a cop, and I was like, 'Hell no, Joe, that don't fit with my flow,' and he agreed that my personality doesn't fit the professionalism police officers are _supposed_ to adhere to. I was picturing one of those billboards with the 'Your Ad Here' signs and trying to equate that with his use of 'adhere', because the last two drinks I slammed were catching up with me fast, and when he asked me to have dinner with him, I almost didn't realize that he was actually asking me out, on a real friggin' date, and that me telling him the truth wasn't going to yield the scary bad consequences I'd been so afraid of. Instead I could have what I wanted, which was him.” Other-Shawn finished his tale with a grin and waved both hands a little. “And then it just went from there. We did the slightly awkward dinner out thing a couple of times before we realized it was eleventy-zillion times easier to eat at his house after he cooked for me; we talked more, and it was fun and exciting because I could be honest and tell him all sorts of things I never even knew he wanted to know. A lot of his stories were boring, but if I just stared into his eyes and thought about doinking, he just assumed I was super-interested in what he was saying, and he got all gratified that I could actually be focused when it came to him.”

Doinking. Shawn's memory flashed back to the dream he'd been having before this whole mess started, and he licked his lips. “How long before you... leveled up?”

Other-Shawn gave him the sort of shit-eating grin that Shawn knew totally was a face-rubber. “Not long.”

Rude. “So... good for you, I guess, you're with him and it's working and you're happy. But I know none of that is going to work for me. Even if I did try to tell him... I mean, you've seen him. First he'll gloat and make me and everyone else admit he was right all along, and then he'll arrest me—if not for the fraud and the lying, for making him look like a dork all the times I solved for X before he could get to J. I don't think he's going to get that I can just jump from A to D to Q to B and then to X—he's got to go in order.”

“He will, though,” Other-Shawn insisted. “With me, he believed me right away, but he still wanted... not proof, exactly. A demonstration? To see and try to understand my process. So I made him promise that he wasn't going to turn me in, and he made me promise I wouldn't do anything illegal, and we worked a few cases together, full disclosure. I showed him how I do it specifically on jobs, and I gave him a few demonstrations of my observation and memory when he chose and took me somewhere I'd never been before, and then he just... admitted he'd apparently been wrong to think that the ability to cold-read strangers was bullshit. He amended that to say that he still thought it was crap when _most_ people claimed they could do it, but he now believed I really could. I was the exception that proved the rule, or something. I said that was fine, as long as he agreed that I was exceptional, and he just looked at me, told me that he absolutely agreed, and kissed me again.” He paused. “I think you're both wrong about each other here. If he cut you a little more slack, and if you trusted him more...”

“Which one has to come first?”

“That I don't know.”

Shawn sighed. “Awesome. So, he won't ease up on me until he knows the truth, and I can't tell him until he eases up.” He glanced at his mirror-twin, feeling sulky again. “He seemed easier on you. He never would have let me, like, hold and rub his hand.”

Other-Shawn shrugged. “I think that comes back to maybe he trusts me a little more, because I told my version of him the truth, even if I didn't to him. That, and I know him well enough to think it was okay to just go for it, and you're still tentative and convinced he's going to punch you or something. Did you get along with my Carlton, by the way?”

“Oh, yeah. There was one time when he thought I was trying to be a psychic at him and he verbally whapped me with a rolled-up newspaper, but that wasn't what I was doing, and I said sorry and just tried to do my thing without the bells and whistles or even the shells and thistles.” He paused. “I tried to be supportive and tell him we'd figure it out—how to get you guys back home—when he was all bummed, and it seemed to help him feel better.” He paused again. “He's a lot easier to be around than the Lassie I know. He wasn't just constantly snapping at me and giving orders and wearing his jerkpants.”

Other-Shawn snorted. “That figures. My Carlton likes you because he already knows you, so it's easier for him to be patient and to get you doing what he wants. And yours likes me because I can be more truthful and I'm not as obnoxious around him, since I'm used to him more—” He gestured vaguely before managing to catch the word he wanted “—intimately. And it's not nearly as charged and awkward for me as it is for you.”

“Hmm,” Shawn said softly. “Maybe we should just... switch.”

Other-Shawn squinted. “Switch,” he repeated. 

Shawn had just made the comment offhandedly, but now that he had an extra few seconds to think about it seriously, the possibilities raced through his thoughts. “Sure,” he said. “Like... just for a night, maybe? Just to... see what happens?”

“You just want to frick-frack paddy-whack give my boyfriend a bone,” Other-Shawn scoffed. 

“I'm you,” Shawn reminded him. “It wouldn't be cheating. Maybe that's what—what my-world-Lassie needs: you. Since you're also me... but you're just different enough that he trusts you more. Maybe something will happen then.” He ignored the part of his mind that was insisting that this would mean that it wouldn't be him that this-world-Lassie would be starting something with, but in this scenario he'd be spending time with Other-Lassie... the one that was used to being in a full-blown relationship with him (or a version of him). One that knew him, one that enjoyed his presence... one that would find it perfectly normal to have sex with him, one that already loved him. 

Other-Shawn blinked then, realizing that Shawn meant it. “I don't know if they'd go for that,” he said slowly. “Especially your Carlton. Lassie, I mean. He was okay with me, but...” He trailed off again, tilting his head as his eyes drifted away and he thought about it.

“You really don't think he's at all interested in you?”

“Maybe...”

“So you don't think your Lassie—Carlton—would be into the idea of me subbing in for you?”

Other-Shawn snorted. “Well, that's an interesting choice of words,” he said lightly. “I'd have to explain something if we were actually going to do that. But back on subject... if they're up for it, then I guess. You're right that we're apparently the same people, there's just... two of each of us. I think Carlton might actually go for it... you'd be me, but you'd be new. Lassie... he might be okay with me hanging around him, but I really don't know if anything would happen.”

“We could ask them.”

“We could,” Other-Shawn agreed.

Shawn's heart was beating fast and hard again—so many possibilities. “And you're up for it?”

“Well... we're the same person, so... it'd be stupid to be jealous?”

 _No, it wouldn't_ , Shawn thought, his excitement fizzling. Same person or not, they had different lives, and he wasn't the one in the relationship. He wasn't the one who had put in the time and who had built up the trust that Lassie needed in order to be with him. To capitalize on it would be underhanded and skeevy. Unless... Other-Lassie knew exactly what they were proposing and he agreed to it. Other-Shawn did say that he thought his boyfriend might go for it because the Shawn that would spend the night with him would be 'new'. And Shawn wanted, more than anything now that their circumstances had presented the situation and the possibility to him, to have at least one night with Carlton Lassiter, even if he was from another universe. 

“If you don't want to, we don't have to bring it up,” he said finally. “But... dude, it could be amazing for all of us. I really think my-world-Lassie would have a far easier time letting his guard down around you versus me. It sounds like it really does help that he knows you came clean, even if it wasn't with him specifically, and you already know him, and, like... what he likes, and all.”

Other-Shawn smiled. “He did like it when I massaged his hand.” He thought about it for another moment and then nodded. “Okay. I'm game. We can ask them. Provided we all understand that it's only for one night and the Carlton that's mine stays mine—we're not switching forever, and if we find a way to get back home, I'm taking him with me.”

“Totally,” Shawn agreed, but in his mind he was focused on just one part of his double's last statement: _If._


	11. Chapter 11

Lassiter sat at his desk in the police department, leaning over the Mirror Maze cashier's witness statement but looking through it. He was experiencing a feeling he'd only had a few times in his life, and when he was finally able to put his finger on what it meant, it didn't serve to improve his mood at all: He didn't want to be here, didn't want to be focusing on this case. He _should_ want to, seeing as it was his case and it involved the murder of a man and the disappearance of a woman, but he was having difficulty keeping it in the forefront of his mind when all he really wanted to do was find Spencer and their doubles and continue working on _that_ case—their case. He didn't have any new evidence or even ideas or avenues to pursue, but he could still... be around them. He could look at the evidence again (everyone's witness statements he'd had them write out) and try to brainstorm, if nothing else. 

Really, he should just stay here, keep working the strange mirror-murder case, because Spencer #2 could still be right. He had a point in noting the similarities of their circumstances, at least when it came to _possible_ disappearances—if he and the other Lassiter were in this world, they were surely missing from their own—and the weirdness involving mirrors. However, despite his recognition of those similarities, something didn't track with Lassiter. He'd been a detective—Head Detective—for a long time, and he didn't like it. Not that he liked doppelgangers from another universe popping in on himself and the one person who annoyed him so badly that he regularly wanted to throw him back against the wall, but he liked less the suggestion that the dead man at the mall, the smashed mirrors there (that everyone present could acknowledge), and the missing woman were all due to someone on the 'other side' of the mirrors (someone from Spencer #2 and Lassiter #2's universe, perhaps) working a spell to draw in others from this universe and it was only semi-successful. He would grudgingly give Spencer #1 points for his assertion of magic—how else could they be here? It just wasn't possible in all realms of nature and logic to this world—but only a few. 

Spencer. Smiling at Lassiter, sitting quietly instead of being obnoxious when it was asked of him, following directions at the crime scene, and reporting in a low voice things he saw (“The body through the mirror is almost on its side, but more on its back, almost as if he was trying to run away, but was pulled back”) and things he didn't (“Carlton, look—almost every single one of the mirrors in this corner are broken to some degree, but the breaks aren't in straight lines like they were after we came through, there are more splinters than a drunk Ninja Turtle sees while greeting his sensei”). 

No—he was wrong. That had been Spencer, true, but to be more specific it was the other one, Spencer #2, who he'd spent almost the whole day with today. The one his other self regularly called _Shawn_ who had known that his hand was aching, and who had held on to his arm and massaged his palm and fingers with firm, sure movements until his hand was warm and loose, the whisper of his touch still lingering. Lassiter noticed that his other hand was mimicking that touch very lightly, the tips of his fingers just grazing his skin, and he quickly drew his hands apart, grabbing a pen with one and almost brandishing it at his sheet of notes, threatening a bold double-underline at any second. His other elbow hit the surface of his desk and he brought his other hand up, at first cupping his chin and then sliding up his face to run through his hair. 

His eyes found the clock in the corner of his computer desktop then, and he saw that it was almost nine o'clock. He wasn't making any progress here, and it didn't seem likely that he would, not without more information. He could go home. He should go home. Back to his empty apartment, which boasted peace and quiet with only himself present. He thought of Spencer's apartment, and his two guests, the three of them crammed into his tiny living room, the latter two smushed together on a crappy pull-out sofa bed at night. Dragged away from their own home, and their own lives, by forces unknown—that the forces were real was hardly the question anymore. The 'why' and the 'how' trumped the 'who' or 'what', at least in this case.

At least they had each other—that had to bring some measure of comfort. Lassiter couldn't imagine being either one of them in a similar scenario where only one had disappeared through a mirror into an alternate universe; discounting the mind-boggling realization that such a thing was possible, and that it had happened to him, it would be terrible to think that his romantic partner might have no idea what had happened to him or where he was, and that he'd be trapped in such a place, with almost no hope of return, without them. Possibly forever. At least in this case, if they were never able to figure out what had happened or how to reverse it, these two still had each other. It was something, no matter how strange Lassiter found it. It wasn't his business. He got up to go home.

Lassiter's phone chimed with a text alert just as he was putting his briefcase on the passenger seat of his car, and he sighed before digging it out of his pocket. It was from Spencer, asking him to come to his apartment tonight if he could. Lassiter raised his eyebrows at the screen of his phone, hoping that some new information had come to them and they were a step closer to resolving this mess, if not ready to clean it up entirely. He texted back that he was on his way, and got his car pointed in that direction.

He considered not knocking on Spencer's door, to just burst in and demand to know what they did—he was the lead detective here—but Spencer was still a civilian and he still had rights. Lassiter rapped on the door quickly and waited impatiently to be let in, and when the door swung open widely enough for him to enter, he saw three things at once. Spencer, standing near the door, his eyes flicking up and down over him as if to size him up. The other Spencer, on the sofa with one ankle up on his opposite knee—generally a casual posture, but his hands were on his thighs with his fingers splayed, and Lassiter knew he'd intentionally set his hands like that so that he wouldn’t fidget. And finally, the other Lassiter, in the chair and staring at Spencer #2, who wasn't looking back at him, with narrowed eyes. 

“Hi, Lassie,” Spencer #1 said cheerfully, closing the door behind him. “Did you make any more headway with your case?”

“No,” he said, and drew himself up to his full height, which towered him over Spencer when he wanted it to. He also put his hands on his hips, impatient and entirely not in the mood for any bullshit. “What's going on here?”

“They're up to something,” the other Lassiter said, sounding pissed off that his boyfriend still refused to look in his direction. “And neither of them would budge until you got here.”

“It's nothing bad,” Spencer #2 said, his tone placatory but his eyes on the doorway to Spencer #1's kitchen. 

“I didn't tell you to tell me what it _isn't_ , I told you to tell me what it _is_ ,” the other Lassiter said. Spencer #2 looked at Spencer #1, who reached up to fiddle with his hair for a moment before starting. 

“Okay, um... we were just thinking... that this situation is so fifty-one-fifty that it might be a really long time before any of us find out anything we can use when it comes to getting the two of you back home. And that, you know, we can make the best of it for now... including thinking about some things we never would have had a chance to otherwise.”

“Like?” Lassiter prompted, frowning.

“Like... spending some more time together. Only opposite of what we're all used to.” Spencer #1 paused to lick his lips, his eyes darting from each person in the room to the next, landing last on the other Lassiter, who finally dragged his gaze away from Spencer #2 to turn a frown on him as well. “You know... just to change things up a little. For one night. Since we're all technically the same people, just more than one, like a twice-baked potato that turns out all crispy on the outside but tender and flavorful on the inside. Or when you chop in worm in half and just end up with two worms.”

There was silence for a moment while both Lassiters tried to discern the true meaning of this and both Spencers looked nervous. That nervousness—and the way the Spencer from _this_ world was darting glances at the Lassiter from another—gave Lassiter an idea (some deviant thing he'd heard about involving drawing car keys from a fish bowl and going home with whichever random person claimed the keys as theirs), but before he could do more than drop his hands from his hips in surprise, the other Lassiter spoke first.

“Are you talking about switching?” he asked, his voice flat. “You with me and _my_ Shawn with _him_?”

“It was his idea,” Spencer #2 said quickly.

“Hey!” Spencer #1 yelped. “Good Twin, you just lost all rights to that name.”

“What makes you think I'd want to spend any more time with _any_ of you than I absolutely have to?” Lassiter demanded. 

“You came here,” Spencer #1 said. 

“I thought you had more information on how to make this insanity better, not worse!”

“I didn't say I did—all I said was, 'Why don't you stop by here, if you can?' It would've been more urgent or said something about a case or evidence otherwise, even '911, we need the 411 on specials at the 7-11'. It was optional, yet here you are.”

Lassiter threw his arms in the air and huffed out an annoyed sigh, but Spencer wasn't finished. Lassiter told himself he could—and should—just turn around and leave... but he didn't. 

“And you got along with the other me really well today, or so I heard.” Spencer #1 looked at the other Lassiter, who was watching him now. “And you and me got along. It would be... new... but also kinda the same, because we're the same person.”

“No, we're not,” Lassiter said. He didn't like the considering expression he saw on his double's face now, and he knew he needed to remind them all of the truth in his statement at once. He pointed to his double, who ignored him in favor of dropping his gaze down Spencer #1's face to his chest, his abdomen, and lower. “I am not him,” Lassiter said clearly. “We may have a lot of the same memories, but we think and behave differently.”

“No, you don't,” Spencer #1 said. “He's pure Lassie, just a little... looser.”

“He used to be just like you,” Spencer #2 amended. “But constant influence by my brilliance has allowed him to feel the gooey warmth of each new day, to be spontaneous and have fun without scheduling it in the itinerary.”

“Great,” Lassiter snapped. “So being around you knocked a few of his screws loose. That's absolutely something I want to happen to me.”

“No, he's right,” the other Lassiter said, and now his voice was mild. “I used to be you.” 

“You evolved, like a Pokemon,” Spencer #2 said. 

“Lassie became Lassilicious?” Spencer #1 asked.

“That was level two,” Spencer #2 agreed. “But prolonged exposure to the Shawn Stone evolved him up to 'Carlton'.”

“Can I call you that?” Spencer #1 asked the other Lassiter, his voice quiet and his face serious.

The other Lassiter looked at him, and then he smiled, very slightly. “Yes.”

That pissed Lassiter off—so now everyone was on a chummy first-name basis? He and Spencer had done just fine with _Lassiter_ (or “Lassie”, which he hated but knew there was no stopping, especially not if he let on how much it annoyed him) and _Spencer_ for years, who said he was ready for any of it to change? Spencer had never given him any serious indication that _he_ wanted it to. Lassiter pointed one finger at one Spencer and then the other. “ _They_ are not the same,” he said firmly. “There are significant differences. For one, that one there seems capable of behaving like a human being every now and then.”

“It worked both ways,” Spencer #2 said.

“What did?”

“The evolution. I'm Shawn 2.0—better, faster, smarter.”

“Pfft,” Spencer #1 scoffed. “If that's true you would have realized you could make your hair so much more awesome.” He gestured to his head. “See? You have the potential.”

“There's enough here to pull,” Spencer #1 said, and grinned. 

“He's right again,” the other Lassiter said.

“About pulling his hair?” Spencer #1 asked, his eyebrows raised.

“No. Well, yes. But no—I believe I can safely say that I've spent much more time with my Shawn than you have that one.” Lassiter's double looked at him now, and Lassiter folded his arms across his chest to ward off any more points he might be trying to make. “They're the same, except that mine is clearly more influenced by me keeping a thumb on him for almost a year.”

“And the rest of your hands,” Spencer #2 added.

Lassiter scowled, but he couldn't help thinking about it, holding both Spencers in a side-by-side comparison in his mind. The differences he had noticed in the last couple of days—mostly Spencer #2 being quieter and calmer, less obnoxious and irritating, more agreeable, more... companionable—he supposed he could attribute to being in a serious relationship with someone willing to spend the time and have the patience to keep him utterly in line. Of course, Spencer would have to have been willing to be reformed enough to stay within the parameters given to him, and every part of his behavior that Lassiter had ever witnessed said that it wasn't worth trying. 

But was he wrong? The other Lassiter had apparently made it work for him—it was exactly what they were claiming, that being with each other had altered each of their behavior enough so that they were not only compatible, but happy together. Spencer #2 had said he was happy, and said that they loved each other. Lassiter couldn't imagine being able to love someone who was such an immature, manipulative freeloader... but that Spencer had come clean about his lie, and his truth, to him. Why? What changed? Why had Spencer #1 never told him the truth—why had he instead dug his heels in further? If he did ever come clean, would that be enough, after all this time?

“So, you're willing to go back with him?” the other Lassiter asked his boyfriend. “And there's no question as to what we're referring to by that?”

“Sure,” Spencer #2 said, and when his eyes met Lassiter's, he smiled—but not the arrogant, smart-assy one Lassiter was familiar with seeing on the other Spencer's face. It was small, non-challenging... inviting. “It doesn't have to be anything,” he said softly. “Nothing, or everything, or something in between. We can rent a movie or something, and just chill for the night. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want,” Lassiter repeated uncertainly.

“Yup.”

He looked at the Spencer from his world, but he was looking at the other Lassiter, a look of clear longing on his face. Lassiter felt his stomach drop a little and then forced himself to let his arms out of their cross, to show how much he didn't give a shit about all of this. “So that's what you're proposing?” he asked. “He spends the night with me, and you two just... stay here together?”

Spencer looked at him, and just for a moment that look of wanting stayed with him. “Yeah,” he said, and shrugged. “I figured that might work better all around.” He glanced back at the Lassiter in the chair and started to grin. “Or at least it might be fun. Who knows what might go down.”

Spencer #2 threw his arm in the air. “I do! It's me.”

The other Lassiter snorted, and Lassiter turned to him. “And you're fine with this?” he asked. Not only had he exhibited a good amount of control and possessiveness over the other Spencer (frequently referring to him as “my Shawn”, among other things), he wanted to know if his double was really willing to trade the Spencer he'd worked on, applying not only his influence but his trust to him as well, for one that both Spencers had more or less equivocated to a lesser developed version. Of course, that meant that they also considered _him_ lesser developed, which was a crock of shit. He could show them.

The other Lassiter looked at Spencer #1 and very obviously sized him up. Lassiter could see Spencer noticing this and standing up straighter with his chin lifted and his shoulders back—a stance Spencer #2 had taken several times when under his boyfriend's stare. “Are you going to be good?” the other Lassiter asked him.

Spencer #1 darted his eyes very quickly to his own double, who raised his eyebrows slightly, and then he nodded quickly and firmly. “Yes.”

“All right. I'll stay.” The other Lassiter looked at Spencer #2. “You can go.”

Spencer #2 looked at Lassiter and gave him the little smile again. “Am I coming back with you?”

Lassiter opened his mouth and then closed it again. He could still say no, could still leave... could still end up alone at home again. And if it was really entirely up to him what went on once they were at his place, he could still stick to his guns and refuse to become involved at all with any version of someone who pretended he had magical powers to swindle the police department for his own gain... even if this one had made efforts to be a more honest and law-abiding person. And if he said no, he would upset the applecart of the other Lassiter and of Spencer #1, who had seemed to make the decision to _spend the night together_ , no question as to what that meant. Not that he cared all that much what either of them thought or wanted. 

Spencer #2 was still looking at him, and Lassiter could almost swear that he saw want there in his face now. He remembered the touch of his hands, and thought of how long it had been since anyone at all had touched him, or even indicated that they were interested in doing so.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

The other Spencer... Shawn... smiled again, this time much more openly. “Yeah,” he said. “That'd be cool. Have you seen _Gran Torino_ yet?”

“No... I got back-to-back big cases when it was in theaters last winter.”

Spencer brightened further. “Great! It just hit DVD a couple of weeks ago, we should rent it. You like it.”

“Don't tell me what I like,” Lassiter said, feeling distracted. 

“But I know what you like.”

“He's right,” the other Lassiter said for a third time, putting his Insufferable Quotient at a total of 175 points.

“Fine,” Lassiter said. “That's... fine, whatever. If you want to come with me, then... all right.”

Spencer #2 bounced to his feet. “Just one sec.” He went over to the other Lassiter, who moved his legs apart enough to give him room to stand between his feet and then turn, sliding onto his lap before leaning down and kissing him. He murmured something short—Lassiter tried not to speculate on what it was, although he thought he could make a good guess—and then he got up again, presenting himself in front of Lassiter, looking up at him and smiling. “Ready?”

Was he? Lassiter didn't actually know. “Are you going to be able to keep your mouth shut and—and behave?”

“Sure thing,” Spencer said, proving it by not drawing attention to Lassiter's phrasing of 'keep your mouth shut' and making some asinine comment about how that only went for as long as he wanted it to. That much seemed already to be implied.

“I guess... fine, then. Let's go.”

As he turned for the door, Lassiter heard Spencer #1, who he suddenly realized had been suspiciously quiet for the last few minutes, scoff heavily. “Sure,” he said sarcastically. “You'll fuck him, but you wouldn’t fuck _me_.”

Lassiter whirled on him, almost sputtering as he saw the sulky expression on Spencer's face, telling him that he had indeed heard what he thought he had. “You never asked me to!” he retorted.

Spencer almost flinched at that, and then his sullen expression returned. “You were too busy hating me!”

“And you were too busy lying every time you opened your mouth. How would I ever know anything you said to me was true?” 

Spencer's face softened then, and he bit his lower lip gently before saying, almost in a whisper, “Lassie...”

This wasn't the time for his theatrics—all of them had made an arrangement, and if they were going to get through this entire situation, which Lassiter felt he could now that they'd gotten to the point of the other Spencer going home with him, they needed to take it one step at a time and just go with their prior decision. If Spencer #1 had finally decided that he had anything to say to him, then after waiting for two years, it could keep for awhile longer.

“Save it,” he said. “I'm tired and I'm going home. Come on... Shawn.”

Lassiter was halfway down the hall before Spencer #2 caught up with him and stepped into the elevator behind him. He waited for a disappointed or disapproving look as they sank to the ground floor, he waited for some kind of comment, but Spencer simply hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and read the fire warning to always take the stairs. 

“I suppose you think that was mean, or something,” Lassiter said finally. Calling this Spencer _Shawn_ in front of the other... maybe it was. But he didn't feel bad about it. 

Spencer glanced at him just as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. “I think,” he said mildly, “we need to find a Redbox and some popcorn. It's time to watch Clint Eastwood save the day.”

That did sound good. “All right.” Lassiter led the way outside and to his car; he unlocked it and they slid in together, but although he inserted the key into the ignition, he didn't start it. Spencer #2 waited patiently, and that set off another round of conflicted feelings in him. He still didn't know if he could, if he really wanted to, how far it could go... what was going to happen. “Spencer,” he began, and then looked at him. “Shawn.”

“It's okay,” he said softly. “We're just going to watch a movie, that's all that's in the plan. You've been working and you're tired—I get it, really. We'll just hang out, maybe you can have a couple of drinks, maybe I can rub your shoulders... or I'll just watch the movie with you and it'll be fine.”

“That's not what they're doing,” Lassiter said in a low voice.

Spencer clicked his tongue. “True, but as you keep pointing out, we're the same people but not the same entity, or the same consciousness. Don't worry about them. This is just you and me, and we can do whatever you want, Carlton.”

Lassiter slowly reached forward and started the car. What was it he wanted to do? He didn't know the extent of it, not yet... but as for right now, he was simply taking Shawn Spencer home with him. What happened later... and how much... would happen later.


	12. Chapter 12

After Lassie and Other-Shawn left his apartment, Shawn could only look at his closed door. He tried not to think of stupid cliches like 'knife in the heart' or 'the green-eyed monster came to feed' (which was a stupid one anyway—what was he supposed to be jealous of, himself?), but all he could see was Lassie's face when he'd told the mirror-man to come with him... and had called him _Shawn_. 

“Are you all right?”

Shawn turned to Other-Lassie , who was still sitting in the armchair and watching him carefully. “Sure,” he said automatically. “Fine. He must've put on his rude-pants when he got dressed this morning.” But Other-Shawn was probably going to be getting them off of him soon, he didn't add.

“Do you really blame him?”

“ Yes! I was trying—I've  _been_ trying—” He stopped and sighed. “No. He can't just flip and want to take me seriously when I've been goofing around on him for years. Just because I'm ready doesn't mean he is.”

“That's right.”

“Did it take you awhile? To be able to trust other-me?”

Other-Lassie thought about it. “A short while, yes. But as you said, you've been lying to him far longer than my Shawn has to me. The whole last year that we've been together and he's been solidifying my trust in him, you've been working in the opposite direction. You have a lot of ground to make up before you can meet in the middle.”

That made sense, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Shawn trudged to the sofa and flopped on it. “Do  _you_ trust me?” he asked. “At all?”

Other-Lassie tilted his head slightly and thought about that too. “Yes,” he said, after a long moment. “But much of that is because of my Shawn and my understanding that, discounting some surface personality, you're the same core person. If I'd just met you, I wouldn't.”

“That's fair.” Shawn looked up at the ceiling moodily before remembering the reason Lassie had left with Other-Shawn and why Other-Lassie was still here, alone with him in his apartment. “But you're still going to fuck me, right?”

Other-Lassie smiled. “Oh, yes.”

Shawn sat up, excited in his chest and in his pants. “Right now?”

“Do you want it right now?” Other-Lassie asked, his voice low and deliberate. He still hadn't moved in the chair, but Shawn could see that his gaze had focused on his face.

Shawn's memory flashed back to the conversation he'd had with his doppelganger regarding the nature of his sexual relationship with Lassiter, how they were and how it went. Simplified, it was a dominant-submissive thing that permeated all points of their relationship, not just the bedroomy section, which made some things Shawn had noticed about their interactions make perfect sense.  _Don't make any jokes_ , Other-Shawn had said while they waited for Other-Lassie to come back from the shooting range.  _You need to be completely serious and trust him and go with it. If you fuck around, he won't touch you. I doubt he'll give you the same as he does me, since he's technically never been with you, but if you obey him, he'll give you enough to keep you out of this world until it feels like you'll never come back down. But it's okay when you do, because he'll be there to catch you and hold on to you._

That was what Shawn wanted, more than anything, and he was completely willing to do whatever Lassie wanted of him. He was incredibly eager to be told what that was, but he was determined to keep Other-Shawn's direction to stay completely serious in the forefront of his mind as long as he could, to let the other man give the orders so that he could obey them. “Yes,” he said and waited.

Other-Lassie stood up. “Bedroom.”

Shawn rose to his feet and almost dived for his room in one smooth motion, slowing down enough so that his feet wouldn't tangle and so he wouldn't seem like he was literally running for it. He led the way, opening the door and knowing that Lassie would hate the disorganization, but hoping that they would soon be too occupied for him to really think about it. His bedroom was small, but with his bed in the corner there was a bit of space between the door and the wall with the window. The mirror over his closet door was still broken in lines, and Shawn hoped that that wouldn't be a deterrent now that they had come here... but after a glance around the room, his eyes only lingering on the mirror for a second, Other-Lassie dismissed it all and studied Shawn, who stood up straight but stayed quiet.

“Seeing as the two of you discussed this before I—and my counterpart—arrived here, I'm assuming that my Shawn explained a few things to you,” Other-Lassie said. Shawn nodded, and Other-Lassie smiled. “Good,” he said. “Since you're actually  _not_ him, I'm going to be easy on you—but first, I want to see how well you can listen. Get down on your knees.”

Shawn dropped at once, not sure if he was supposed to be up on them or sitting back, so he opted for the lower point. Lassiter stepped closer to him and Shawn couldn't help but to move his gaze toward the other man's groin, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips as his breath came faster in anticipation.  _Holy shit_ , he thought, almost giddy with the idea that he was finally going to get it, and that Lassie was finally going to give it to him.

“Shawn.”

He looked back up immediately, thinking that this was a nice vantage point. He started to grin, and then he saw the serious look on Other-Lassie's face and managed to quell it, to make himself calm again. “Yeah?”

“Say my name.”

“L—” Shawn cut himself off, almost too eager to do what he was told to remember that he habitually used a teasing nickname instead of the man's actual name. He gave himself a second to reset, and then he looked up again. “Carlton,” he said. It was only slightly awkward... he found that he actually could think of this version of Lassie as _Carlton_. Other-Shawn called him that, after all.

Carlton smiled, and Shawn had to fight not to grin proudly, to keep his serious expression on—he seemed to have passed some sort of test. Carlton gently touched Shawn's face, lightly stroking his cheek with one finger. “Good boy.”

Shawn's eyes widened then and he stopped breathing for a moment, because ohJesusfuck did he want to hear that again. He felt flushed and slightly trembly, but it was all so okay, everything was, as long as he got more.

“What is it you want, Shawn?”

“You,” he said at once.

“I'm here. Tell me exactly what you want.”

Shawn's eyes dropped down to his belt again, and his fingers twitched slightly on his thighs, itching to be given permission to undo it. “I want to suck your dick.”

“Mmhm,” Carlton said softly. “And then?”

At this point, that by itself might be enough, but this was an even less than once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he'd be double-dogged if he was going to let any of it pass him by. “And then,” he said, looking back up and recalling his dream/fantasy the night all of this started, “I want you to fuck me, until I come with your dick still inside me. Before—or after—that, I want to do anything you want me to.”

Carlton smiled. “Good answer.”

His hand shot out then, so quickly that his fingers were entwined in Shawn's hair before he realized he was reaching for him, and he tugged him forward sharply, holding Shawn still against his thigh. Shawn had never before been one for having his hair pulled—only one person had tried it, and he'd done little else except mess up half an hour of that morning's work by just running his fingers through Shawn's hair and giving him a couple of half-hearted tugs—but now Shawn moaned before he knew he was going to. It was just on the edge of  _almost_ too hard, but the tightness of the grip and the sensation of pulling on his scalp, added to the knowledge that it was Lassie doing it and that Shawn's face was now less than six inches from where he wanted it to be, made his cock throb again. He turned his face into the cloth of his pants and inhaled, opening his mouth enough to feel the fabric on his lips. Carlton pulled sharply on his hair again, and then there was only suit trousers between Shawn's parted lips and the only cock he'd seriously wanted in years. He moaned softly again and looked up, asking pleading begging.

Carlton had wound the fingers of his left hand into Shawn's hair; he pulled his head back a little then, enough so that he could touch Shawn's lower lip with the tip of one finger. When Shawn parted his lips at once, he smiled again and pushed his first two fingers past his lips and into his mouth, tugging on his hair again to pull his face forward. Shawn went with it entirely, keeping eye contact and starting to suck on his fingers, know that he was going to get something better in just a moment or so, but liking this too. His jeans were too tight on his hard dick, but that was okay—it was a little painful, but he'd have an even more difficult time paying attention and obeying if it was out. He flicked his tongue over Carlton's rough fingers, his smooth, clipped nails; he edged the tip of his tongue between them and then sucked again, moving his head forward just enough to feel the pull on his scalp, as Carlton hadn't given him any more leeway. This was hot, but if he didn't get to move on in the next few—

“Good,” Carlton said then, his voice considerably more ragged than when he'd spoken last. He pulled his fingers out of Shawn's mouth, only enough to trace his wet lips with the tip of one. “You want it, huh?”

“Yes,” Shawn said, trying not to sound too pleading. He wouldn’t be able to help it if the other man kept teasing him, but other-Shawn had made a point to say that while Other-Lassie wanted to be obeyed, he wasn't interested in having sex with a doormat. (That had given Shawn a moderately hilarious mental image and he'd gotten far enough to see the spelling of 'welcome' changed to 'well, come' before he'd almost hurt himself smirking.) He wanted it, all right, and the sooner the better, like  _right now_ .

“Then get it,” Carlton said, and loosened his grip on Shawn's hair. He still kept a hand on his head, but he didn't yank him forward or pull him back when Shawn focused his gaze on his belt, glanced up once to be sure, and then had the buckle and zipper out of his way in a matter of seconds. He pulled down the front of his shorts with one hand, and then—finally—he had Carlton Lassiter's dick in his other hand.

He couldn't help but lick his lips as his eyes took it in, but he only held himself back for another second before he dipped his neck forward and licked the head, rubbing his tongue over the slit on the end. He felt Carlton breathe out a low sigh, which turned into a pleased grunt when Shawn opened his mouth to allow his cock to sink all the way into his mouth and toward the back of his throat before he ran out of room. His own dick throbbed again painfully, and he shifted a little on his knees while bobbing his head up and down, starting slow but unable to keep the rhythm—he'd wanted this too badly for too long. He had one hand curled around the base of Carlton's dick to keep it steady, his other hand on his thigh for balance, and as he felt the hand on his head start to guide him faster he went with it, allowing Carlton to set the pace and focusing on his tongue and his lips and the hard cock in his mouth.

Then, with no warning—and entirely unfairly—his head was pulled back and the dick taken away from him, forcing him to look up—the pout that started on his face died when he saw the way Carlton was looking at him, and he licked his lips again, breathing hard. “Mmm... good boy,” Carlton said, gazing down at him, and his eyes flicked to the bed before finding Shawn's again. “Now... get that ass up there.”

Shawn scrambled for the bed the second Carlton withdrew his hand from his head, and the second he reached it, Carlton's hands grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him onto his back. Shawn's eyes flew open wide, not having realized Lassie could actually move that quickly—he was instantly on top of Shawn, between his legs—which he'd shoved apart and pushed up so that he could lean forward—and hovering over him, pinning him down hard by his forearms. Shawn could feel Carlton's dick perfectly lined up with his asshole and he tried to push back against him, wanting it so much that he nearly forgot he was still mostly dressed, and that except for his works, Carlton was as well. Shawn didn't care—enough to get it in him, that's all they really needed at this point.

Carlton looked down at him, breathing hard, and then he grinned when he felt Shawn squirming—not to loosen his grip or to push away at all, but trying to press into him more. “Look at you,” he said, sounding as if he was having trouble keeping himself in check as well. “Look at how bad you want it.”

“Yes,” Shawn said again. “Lassie... Carlton... I thought you'd never actually give it to me. Come on. Give it to me  _good_ .”

Carlton had the nerve to actually smirk at that. “Say it first.”

Shawn blanked at that—was there supposed to be some sort of phrase that was the go-ahead here? If that was it, Other-Shawn had failed to mention it. “I'll say whatever you want,” he promised, and he would, too—anything in the world if it got his pants off.

Carlton gazed down at him for a moment, and then his grin widened, turning self-satisfied. “I can't hear you.”

“Aye-aye, Captain?” Shawn said, his voice unmistakably turning pleading now. “I don't—come on, just fuck me.”

The smug-looking bastard ground his crotch against Shawn's ass again, but made no move to take his hands off his arms or to get the show on the road. “Say it, Shawn.” As he opened his mouth to protest again that he didn't know what he was supposed to say, Carlton leaned down close to him and held his gaze. “Think,” he said softly.

Shawn thought—had he been instructed to say anything before? Ah, yes, of course he had—the one thing he had never been able to bring himself to use seriously until today: Lassie's actual name. “Carlton,” he breathed. “Fuck me.  _Please_ .”

Carlton grinned and leaned forward again, far enough to kiss Shawn on the mouth; it was quick, and although Shawn tried to open his mouth and give him his tongue, he pulled back too soon. “Of course,” he said. “As soon as you tell me... where your supplies are.”

“Shoebox under the bed,” Shawn said, so excited that it was hard to stay still.

Carlton let go of Shawn's arms then—although Shawn could still feel the other man's steel grip on his skin—and as he reached down for it, he ordered, “Strip.” It was a direction Shawn had only been waiting to hear.

Five minutes later they were both naked and Carlton had two of his long, long fingers all of the way inside him, his other hand squeezing Shawn's hard cock. His clear blue eyes held Shawn still without a word, although he panted and moaned and almost couldn't handle it, the tightness and pain at one end and the warm pleasure at the other. He wanted to move, to thrust up into his hand and then push down on his fingers, but he forced himself to stay like he was and let Carlton take control of the entire situation, to take control of him. He bit his lower lip and his eyelids fluttered closed when he felt the fingers in his ass start to move, pushing in and out to slick him up and stretch him open. Carlton's palm slid over the head of his cock, and Shawn shuddered; at the same time, his fingers rubbed inside of him  _perfectly_ and—and  _fuck—_

“Oh my god,” he moaned. “Oh, guh... please, Carlton, now—I can't take it anymore, I need your dick in me.”

“I know,” Carlton said indulgently, and he made eye contact with Shawn again before giving him a smirk and then starting to push his fingers inside him harder, faster. Shawn panted, trying not to whimper, not wanting him to stop but not wanting to finish before they could really get started.

Thankfully, Carlton only tortured him for another minute before he, too, seemed to have had enough; he withdrew both of his hands, which sort of sucked, but only long enough to wipe off his gooed-up fingers on the sheet, squeeze some goo from the bottle onto his dick, lift Shawn's legs up, and stick the head of his cock inside him. Shawn hissed in a breath—it had been months since he'd gotten stuck real good—and made an effort to relax his legs (and his ass) and to allow Carlton's huge, hard cock to push into him. He closed his eyes and focused; every time Carlton pushed, his body tried to clench up and halt the intrusion, but Shawn knew he would only adjust if he relaxed. His own cock had started to droop from the lack of attention and the discomfort, but when he gripped it with one hand and brushed the fingers of his other hand over one of his nipples, it came back to life almost at once, and he inadvertently squeezed down on Carlton's cock again. His eyes flew open, expecting that to hurt, but instead he looked up into blue that was like the sky coming to live inside of him, and his cock twitched in his hand.

When his cock was all of the way inside him, Carlton reached for both of Shawn's arms again, pulling them off himself and firmly pressing them into the mattress, holding him down and holding his eyes while starting to fuck him slowly, pulling back almost all of the way before pushing in until he was sunk in so far that Shawn started to shake. It still hurt, but he didn't care that he was nearly being impaled at each forward thrust; he tried to keep his body relaxed as much as he could, to keep himself open, to _take it._ He moaned again and again, wanting more but not sure he would be able to handle it without coming completely undone and out of control. He was supposed to stay in control of himself, keeping in mind who he was with and how he should behave, to do it right. As much as he wanted this, wanted it to go on forever, this man wasn't his, and it would be stupid to let go of that truth and pretend he was with someone that fucked him like he loved him.

Carlton shoved his dick all the way inside him then and held it there, looking down at him like he  _was_ the one that mattered, the only one. “Shawn,” he breathed.

It was more than awesome, it was  _right—_ the only problem was that he wasn't the right Shawn for this Lassie—he wasn't the one he kissed and held and shared a life with, and that made it wrong. But could it really be, when it  _felt_ this right?

Shawn moaned softly and pulled Carlton closer to him with his heels, wanting more, more. “Fuck me,” he said, not caring anymore that he wasn't supposed to be the one calling the shots. It wasn't like this was ever going to happen again, not when the man inside him loved someone that wasn't truly him... and this man's opposite-but-identical number was spending the night with the one that wasn't Shawn.

He pictured  _them_ doing this now—Lassie fucking Other-Shawn, holding him down in this same way that Shawn had never tried before but was hotter than he would have assumed—and wished it was him that Lassie had taken home, him that he'd called  _Shawn_ and was giving a chance to. Him that he was railing until they both came and fell asleep together and woke up to forever. Yes. If only a few things were different, they could make it work—it could really be the big one, the answer.

But it wouldn't, because it wasn't different—things were what they were, and this phenomenon proved that they were too far apart now to ever be brought closer. Shawn closed his eyes and held on to what he had at this very moment, knowing that it was almost a certainty that he would never have it—have him—ever again. He urged Carlton closer to him with his heels again, relishing the sensation of being filled up with him. “Fuck me, fuck me,” he panted. “Please, harder,  _fuck me Carlton_ .”

Carlton grunted at that, sounding pleased and happy to oblige; he started to move faster, rocking Shawn's body on his bed so hard that the bed frame creaked. He could tell that he was going to be really sore in the morning, but it felt too amazing to care.

When Shawn opened his eyes again just as Carlton took one hand off of his arm and stroked his dick, he imagined Lassie—his Lassie, or at least the one from his world, the one that  _almost_ seemed to be looking at him sometimes as if he wanted something—calling him  _Shawn_ and kissing him, fucking him like this, and he started to come so fast he didn't even have time to let Carlton know that it was happening. Carlton didn't seem to mind—he kept pumping Shawn's cock with his hand, now slicked with semen, continuing to fuck him until he was done spurting and starting to whimper, and then he slammed into him hard, his entire body jerking. Shawn looked up at him, shaking a little from the intensity of it, while Carlton slowed and then stopped. 

After a long moment, he finally moved, carefully pulling out and then sitting on the side of the bed next to Shawn, his expression mild. “Okay?” he asked.

“That was more than okay,” Shawn said, still trying to catch his breath.

Carlton smiled briefly. “I meant, are you okay? Clearly it's been awhile for you.”

“Not that long,” Shawn said quickly. “Trust me, I'm a stud.”

“Uh huh.”

And, he now realized, a sticky-kinda-gooey stud. Shawn made a face as the feeling in his downstairs came back, informing him that he was much slicker than he normally preferred. He was going to have to shower—and change his sheets—before going to sleep... which he also wanted to do, but not quite yet. Right now, as he looked at Carlton's bare chest and his long arms, and tried to calculate the odds that he might actually fall asleep between them, another question came to mind, one that he could use any answer for, and one that could possibly only be answered by the man next to him.

“Lassie,” he began, and then he stopped when the other man's eyes slid over to him. “Carlton, sorry.” He stopped again, seeing the expression on Carlton's face cool, which hadn't at all been what he wanted right now. Fuck. “Sorry,” he mumbled again.

Carlton seemed to consider that, and then he nodded and turned his body toward Shawn, laying one hand lightly over his wrist. “What?”

“ Nothing, I just...” Shawn dropped his eyes away, thinking that really, it was a stupid question, and any answer coming from  _this_ version of him wasn't likely to help after all.

“Just what, Shawn? It's okay.”

Carlton's voice was low and soothing, a tone he'd only heard from him once before: on the phone, when Shawn had been harried and Other-Shawn had said that he wanted him. That tone had confused him then—since when was any version of Lassiter calm and soothing, especially when Shawn was involved? It made perfect sense now, especially with some of the things Other-Shawn had either told him or hinted at. They had both changed, adapted to each other enough to fit, and part of that change on Carlton's part was a willingness to do whatever it took to take care of someone that sometimes had manic episodes or nightmares that left him deciding that sleep was simply an unnecessary secret government plot to keep geniuses like him from engineering an Infan-tree grown from a single infant. (Although, truth be told, he'd abandoned that idea after realizing that he didn't want to be the one called to harvest when it started fruiting.)

“What do I need to do?” he blurted then, knowing he was giving in to vulnerability and hating it, but unable to help it. It wasn't just that he was naked and recently well-fucked so much as it was the man in the room with him who was, apparently, everything he wanted, everything he needed, and everything he couldn't have. He looked at Carlton pleadingly. “How do I get him? How can we be together, and be happy? Please, tell me—anything I can do, I will, I promise.”

Carlton looked at him for a long moment, thinking, and then he sighed. “You know how, Shawn. Your problem is that you're after a simple answer, and it's not simple. I'm not an easy man to get inside when it comes to trusting others, and neither are you. It doesn't matter who started it, who pushed who away first, and who's made it incredibly difficult to turn it around. If you want him... you're going to have to take the risk and jump blind.”

“I could crash and burn.”

“You could,” Carlton agreed. “Or he could catch you.” He paused. “He's not the only one having trouble trusting here, you know.”

Shawn sighed. He knew.


	13. Chapter 13

Lassiter set the movie into the tray of his DVD player, hit the button to send it inside, and then he stood up and frowned at his TV while the menu screen flashed a title, options, and Clint Eastwood's face at him. He'd muted the TV as soon as he turned it on, and the living room was silent while Spencer #2 changed into “something more comfy”, and Lassiter sat in his large armchair to wait for him. There was a bowl of microwave popcorn sitting on the coffee table, along with one scotch and one screwdriver, and Lassiter scowled at those too; he was already changed into lounge pants and an SPBD tee, there were snacks and drinks and a movie just waiting for Spencer to come back and join him, and if he didn't know any better, this was outright casual-date night.

Damn it. So much for staying in control of this situation.

Spencer breezed in from the hallway, still wearing a faded t-shirt with the Dr. Pepper logo on it, but having shucked out of his button-down shirt; he was now in a pair of Lassiter's own pajama pants, which were comically long on him, and he glanced at the TV before smiling. “Excellent,” he said. “Are we ready?”

“I guess,” Lassiter said, and hit the button on the remote to start the movie. He reached for his drink and lifted it to his mouth, and then he paused as Spencer went to each lamp in the room Lassiter had turned on when they'd arrived, switching them off. “What are you doing?”

“Shh, it's starting.”

“It's the anti-piracy warnings.”

“Pft, those are totally out of line. You can't tell a pirate how to live his life.”

“Yes, I can,” Lassiter said firmly. “And I can also tell you to shut it yourself if you want to watch this.”

“Aye aye, Cap'n,” Spencer said, but he sounded amused as he made for the last lamp—a tall one with a small reading bulb—that stood near Lassiter's chair.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and gulped down half of his drink, and then he set the glass on the end table next to his chair and tried to settle back. The DVD was still cycling through the FBI warnings when the last light went off, and Spencer stood next to the chair. It was hard to tell, because the screen had gone dark after the last dire warning about fines and imprisonment, but he seemed to be waiting for something. Lassiter had just turned his head to look up at him and ask what current issue was when Spencer suddenly slid onto his lap, squirmed slightly to adjust himself, and settled back.

Lassiter was shocked, and his first reaction was to dump him onto the floor, but at that second the screen brightened with the first scene of the movie—which he was missing so far, because his eyes were on Spencer's face, trying to figure out what the hell he thought he was doing. Lassiter had instinctively moved back when Spencer landed on him, and it was a big chair, but they were hardly side-by-side—Spencer was very definitely on his lap, and he seemed to be content and all cozied up with the situation, his face calm and his eyes on the TV.

“Sp—what are you—”

Spencer turned then, his body as well as his head, so that he was sideways, almost entirely on his lap; it was a big chair, and they weren't crushed together, at least. “Do you want me to move?” he asked. “I can go sit over there, if you want.” He paused, and Lassiter could see him smile again. “But this is nice. I'm not going to try anything, I promise. We can just watch the movie... unless you decide on something else later.”

Lassiter didn't know what to say to that. Spencer wasn't heavy or uncomfortable on him... he was just uncomfortable, and not all of it was due to how long it had been since anyone at all had been this close to him.

“Carlton?” Spencer's voice was soft, his tone making it clear that he was actually in a compliant mood. He had promised... and the easy way he still used Lassiter's given name—even though he wasn't the one, the version of himself that this Spencer was used to—convinced him. “Can I stay?”

Lassiter huffed out an annoyed sigh, and then he quickly tried to make his expression and his own tone simulate nonchalance. “If you want to. Fine.”

Spencer's smile widened and he settled back more comfortably, his back resting against Lassiter's left shoulder and one of his feet swinging slowly. “Awesome. I like this. Ooh, look, it's the man himself.”

Lassiter turned his attention back to the movie—or, he tried to, anyway. Here he was, watching a new Eastwood flick that he _had_ been wanting to see for ages... but with Shawn Spencer in his lap, his weight solid and almost perfectly distributed over Lassiter's thighs, his body warm and... _there_. He really ought to give his entire focus to the TV. “Are you going to narrate the whole movie?” Lassiter asked irritably.

“Nah.”

Spencer leaned forward for the popcorn and set the bowl half on his own thigh and half against Lassiter's lower stomach—and for the next hour, Lassiter could feel the small vibrations of his hands through the hard plastic of the bowl every time he dug around for the perfect handful. He kept his word again, staying quiet and still as they watched, and Lassiter was able to gradually relax, enjoying the movie and actually not minding Spencer sitting with him, on him. When the movie came to a tense scene—the discovery that a girl had been the victim of a gang as retaliation—Lassiter clenched his fists, imagining what it would be like to be the one to arrest them for such a terrible crime. He'd squeezed his right hand so hard that it ached slightly, and he tried to allow his fingers to relax, spreading them and then opening and closing his hand a few times. Spencer reached for his hand and took it in both of his, his eyes still on the screen. He used the tip of his thumb to massage it again, and Lassiter let him do it, allowing the back of his forearm to rest on Spencer's thigh. Spencer kept it up throughout the rest of the movie, sometimes kneading the bunch of muscle at the base of his thumb, sometimes lightly tracing the lines of his palm... Lassiter had a slightly difficult time paying attention to the movie until the final action scene, where his chest swelled with pride and affection for the old man.

When the movie began rolling its credits, Spencer let go of his hand and leaned over for the TV remote, glancing over it before turning the DVD player off and selecting the cable box and the nightly news. He stretched, wiggling his bottom on Lassiter's lap a little—which brought Lassiter's attention back to him instantly, though he'd been contemplating what his own moves at the end of such a situation might have been—and turned to him, smiling again. “So, where's it rate with _Heartbreak Ridge_ , do you think?”

“It was good,” Lassiter said honestly. “I don't think I would have gone the same route myself, although I do admit all the loose ends were tied.” He paused, unsure if he meant that he would have chosen to stop the feud in another way, or that he wouldn't have had the sack to do what Eastwood's character had. He did sort of hope that he would one day go down in the line of duty, but that was miles different than a conscious decision to instigate such an end.

He realized then that when Spencer had let go of his hand, he'd turned it over, and it was now resting on the inside of Spencer's thigh, which was warm and firm and... inviting. He glanced at Spencer quickly, but his eyes were on the TV again, and he still seemed entirely comfortable. The brightness of the screen contrasting with the dark room made his face almost glow, and Lassiter couldn't take his eyes off the angle of his jaw. He barely heard the story on the news about a reward offered for some rich kid's pet that had run away, unable to take his gaze away from his face, from the feel of him on his lap.

“Pfft,” Spencer scoffed then. “That dude totally loses _my_ vote for Father of the Year.”

“Huh?”

“Look at him,” Spencer said, annoyed. “He just stands there behind his little girl while she cries and begs the public for her kittycat back, but he's perfectly calm, and he only tries to look sympathetic or upset when the kid looks at him or when the journalist asks a question. He didn't want the cat around and got rid of it, probably while the kid was at school.”

“Maybe it did just get out, and he's just glad.”

“No, because then he'd look relieved,” Spencer said. “He knows exactly where it is, or what happened to it. He's going through with the reward offer to give the kid hope, because he didn't expect her reaction to be this huge, but he knows no one's going to call, so he's not worried.”

Lassiter finally took his eyes off his face and frowned at the screen. Spencer was right. Huh. “So you can read people,” he said. That wasn't exactly brand-new information... but getting that much off a forty-second clip on the news, not even from being in the same room as the man in question... that was something.

Spencer turned back to him, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Sure.”

“Hmm,” Lassiter said softly.

Spencer looked at him for a few seconds longer, and then he glanced back at the TV, which was now showing a series of commercials; one for what sounded like ice-cream flavored cereal came on, and Spencer's face lit up again, though this time with excitement. He also wiggled again, just a little, and Lassiter couldn't help it when his hand gently squeezed the inside of his thigh and his thumb rubbed small circles on his leg. Lassiter could tell by the way Spencer's breathing slowed that he noticed at once, but he kept his eyes where they were, not turning back toward him. Lassiter hesitated, unsure if that meant that he was trying not to acknowledge it because he wanted it to stop, or if he was trying not to call attention to it in hopes that it would continue, and then he realized he was overthinking and being an idiot. Of course he wanted it to continue—that was the whole reason he was here, particularly in his current position, which was warm and comfortable on Lassiter's lap. He moved his hand up, just a little—not far enough to be X-rated, just... feeling his thigh, which felt... very good. Spencer took in a low breath, and that was when Lassiter realized that the front of the pajama pants he was wearing were sticking up like a sign that read, “Cock Here”.

_Oh_ , he thought, and when Spencer leaned back into him a little, and spread his legs to allow him better access, his mind got stuck there. _Oh,_ when Spencer put an arm around his neck and looked at him. _Oh_ , when his hand crept forward again and brushed his dick, which was very hard, and Spencer's eyelids drooped and he licked his lips.

“Oh,” he breathed, as his hand closed around his dick and squeezed lightly. It had been a long, long time since he'd touched a man (not as long as his college days, but before he'd married Victoria), and the feeling was both unusual—at least from this angle—and like coming back to a home that had once been enjoyed, a good fit for his life, but had for a long time been abandoned to gather dust in its hollowness.

He squeezed Spencer's dick again, looking up into his face, and Spencer smiled, leaned forward slightly, and kissed him. Lassiter froze for just a second, part of his mind wondering what in the blue blazes he was _doing_ , before another part—one that he hadn't allowed to speak for years—answered, simply, _Shawn_. Shawn. Lassiter slid his hand down a little in order to cup his balls, and when he felt him make a small, pleasured noise, he sunk into the kiss himself, his other arm going around Shawn's back and holding him while his right hand went to work. He was a little surprised at how soft Shawn's tongue was and thought that might be because he never shut up... but, come to think of it, not  _this_ Shawn. _He_ could actually shut his mouth sometimes and just sit with him, like they had while in the car, the first time he'd massaged his hand. Like the last couple of hours, quietly watching a movie together. He could obviously solve cases, he was obviously _brilliant—_ and mysterious, the way he could cold-read people, the way he just _saw_ things. It was all involved with how he did whatever it was he could do, and while Lassiter still didn't know what that was, he knew that Shawn was real, that he was amazing, incredible, downright goddamn impressive.

Lassiter wrapped his fingers around his dick and started to stroke him over the thin cotton of the pajamas, his left arm pulling him closer so that he could kiss him deeper, hold him tighter. Lassiter was hard himself, so hard his groin ached, and he was sure Shawn had to feel it poking into his ass; at that thought, his dick throbbed and he moaned in a low voice, moving his hand faster as Shawn started to writhe on his lap, causing even more friction on Lassiter's dick. He felt almost drunk with all of these sensations even though he'd only had the one scotch, but he wasn't intoxicated with alcohol—it was all Shawn.

Shawn pulled back from the kiss then, breathing hard. “ _Yes,_ ” he breathed, and he quickly kissed Lassiter's cheek and then nuzzled his face into his neck. “Mmmm, Carlton... do you want me to suck your dick?”

He did, really, but... “Shawn,” he said, and moved his hand back to his thigh, waiting until Shawn pulled back enough to look at him. “Just tell me how you do it?”

“I can't,” he said softly, seriously. “You need your Shawn to tell you. And he will, if you can just trust him.”

Spencer—the liar version of him, the one from this world, instead of the amenable one in his lap. “I don't know if I can.”

“Do you trust me?” Shawn asked, his eyebrows up. Lassiter just looked at him for a moment, not sure what to say. Before he had to think of something, Shawn smiled, letting him off the hook. “We figured out what happened,” he said. “Me and the other Shawn. What was different in our worlds so that I ended up with you awhile ago—my-world's-version of you, that is—and you and the other Shawn haven't got there yet. There was a time, almost a year ago, when you were really mad at him about how he'd solved a case before you, and you couldn't figure out how he did it. You cornered him in the hall and got in his face and threatened him, do you remember?”

“Honestly, you're describing so many scenes that I don't know which one you're talking about,” Lassiter said dryly.

“Hmm, okay, fair enough. But in my world, this one was really memorable.” He smiled again. “Here, when you had him cornered, and in my world when my Carlton had me against the wall, we both thought about a Bugs Bunny cartoon where someone had a gun on Bugs, probably Elmer Fudd... so Bugs leaned over and give him a big kiss on the mouth to fluster him so that he could distract him and get away. The other Shawn didn't dare... he was afraid you'd punch him in the face and that any chance he ever might have had would be ruined. I didn't get so far in my thinking... I just flashed to that cartoon scene in my head and did it.”

Lassiter blinked. “You just—I was yelling at you, so you kissed me? That's how you two—" He stopped, trying to imagine what he really would have done if Spencer had actually tried that. Now? A punch in the face was probably a good bet, he had to admit. But a year ago? He didn't know.

“Yeah,” Shawn said, grinning with the memory of it. “Not immediately, but really soon after—that's how it started. Your Shawn—the one from here, I mean—he _really_ wishes he wouldn't have chickened out, especially after finding out that it worked for me... for us. But he spent two or three more seconds thinking about it than I did, and he decided that he couldn't chance you hating him or thinking he was disgusting or something—up until all of this, he honestly couldn't tell that you're bi, too. He thought so sometimes, but then he'd think, 'Nah, he's not into dudes.'”

“I'm... it's been a long time,” Lassiter admitted, his thumb lightly stroking Shawn's thigh again.

“I know,” Shawn said. “And I know why you'd have a hard time trusting him. But he and me, the same we be, just like you and my Carlton are the same. He trusts me. You do too, at least a little. Right?” He leaned down again, his hand on the back of Lassiter's neck, his face inches away from his own. “You can trust your Shawn,” he said softly. “He just needs to know that it's okay, and he'll give you everything, I promise. And when it happens... it can be so, so good.”

Lassiter licked his dry lips. This Shawn was so certain that things were okay now, and that things were going to happen between him and Spencer #1, and that when—if—they did, it was going to be okay then as well. Trust him? Well... “How good?” he asked.

Shawn smiled again. “Let me show you?”

He gave in. It seemed to be all he could do anymore—in the last few days he felt like his entire life had gotten out of his control, and his only options were to roll with it or be flattened by it. This Shawn wanted him, and it had been a long time since he'd been with anyone, so long that he felt each touch lingering on his skin, leaving him wanting more. Wanting Shawn—to get anything he could from him, even if it was just for tonight, and even if he wasn't exactly the one this Shawn really wanted... really loved.

“Yes,” he said, and Shawn twisted in his lap so that he could straddle him, pressing their groins together and kissing him deeply. Shawn put one hand on his shoulder to brace himself up and one hand snaked down between their bodies so that he could slip his fingers into Lassiter's pants and grasp his cock, squeezing it and sliding his hand up and down, rubbing his thumb over the head. Lassiter grabbed onto his hips, his own fingers almost digging into his skin, and then his hands crept around behind him and ran over his ass, feeling him, squeezing him, pulling him closer.

Shawn tried to move into him, but his hand was being crushed between them and he couldn't move it, so he backed off, grinned, and then slid down Lassiter's body until he was kneeling on the floor in front of him. Lassiter watched as he pushed up the t-shirt he was wearing, kissed his stomach in a few places, and then pulled down the front of his pants and exposed his cock. He looked up, locking their gaze together and licking his lips slowly, and then he bent his neck down, still maintaining eye contact, and licked up the underside of his cock until he got to the tip. Shawn opened his mouth and sucked him all the way down then, and Lassiter let out a low moan that was partly a growl. He tried not to thrust up into the hot softness of his mouth, but when Shawn sucked hard and then started going down fast, it was all he could do to just grab the ends of the armrests. Shawn took his cock down all the way to the base, which Lassiter thought might have been impressive, since no one else ever had been able to, and then he hummed a little, causing Lassiter to moan again.

He came back up for air after a few more minutes, panting a little, and then he took just the head into his mouth and sucked on it. Lassiter gripped the arms of the chair harder, trying to force himself to stay still, but when Shawn looked up at him again, he saw that he didn't have to, that Shawn was waiting for him to take more control, _wanting_ him to. Jesus. He laid his hand on the top of Shawn's head, and when Shawn smiled—which Lassiter had to admit looked _really_ good when he had a cock between his lips—and closed his eyes, Lassiter pushed his head down. He moved at once, making an “mmmm” sound... so Lassiter let out a low breath, wormed his fingers in his hair enough to get a good grip on it, and pulled him down the rest of the way. Shawn moaned louder, clearly enjoying that, and took all of his cock down, sucking him on the way back up over and over. Lassiter pushed his head down, held it there, and then carefully thrust into his mouth, just to see if he could take it and not gag; he felt him strain a little, but he managed it, and then Lassiter had pull him off and let him go before he lost control completely and fucked his fast mouth until it was all filled up.

Shawn came up as Lassiter yanked on his hair, and then he watched him carefully as he scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to regain his composure. “Okay?” he asked softly.

“Come here,” Lassiter ordered. His hand shot forward and grabbed a handful of shirt near his collarbone; he tugged, and Shawn obeyed again, climbing back up into his lap and facing him. Lassiter wasted no time in pulling down the front of the pajama pants he had on and getting his hand back around Shawn's dick, which gave him an inexplicable sense of pride when he felt how hard he was from sucking his dick. He looked up at him and watched his face as he started jacking him off, feeling his own cock throb again as Shawn bit his lip and panted, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. He had a nice cock, Lassiter decided: a good size and shape, smooth and clearly sensitive.

He leaned up just a little, enough to wrap his left arm around his ass and force him closer again, and then he bent his neck down and licked the head, tasting him. Shawn gave a startled gasp at that, and Lassiter smiled to himself, liking the way each of his breaths was tinged with a high-pitched moan. He took the entire head of his cock into his mouth and ran his tongue all around it, sucking gently and then with more confidence as Shawn's legs started to shake. He thought it might be really good if Shawn came now, because he would try to take that too... but this position was difficult because Shawn's knees were sunk into the cushions of the chair, and his crotch was only at around Lassiter's chest level. He backed off and wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand, looking up to see so much want on Shawn's face that his cock throbbed again. He knew what he wanted now, but...

Shawn put both hands on the back of his neck and kissed him, that soft tongue of his flicking into his mouth and sliding over his own. “Carlton,” he whispered when he pulled back again. “Will you fuck me? I  _really_... mmm...” he breathed, sitting down enough so that Lassiter's dick poked at his bottom again. “Oh yeah, I _really_ want to feel your dick inside me. Do you want to give it to me?”

“Yes,” he nearly snapped. Fuck yes. Fuck him. Right here? He thought about just getting Shawn's pants off and having him climb right back where he was, impaling himself down on his cock until he was entirely filled up. He could lean forward and put his hands on Lassiter's shoulders as he thrust up into him and then grabbed his hips and pulled him down, hard, fast. But even though this Shawn was used to having sex with a man, they would still need something for lubrication, and although he was pretty sure there was a small bottle of Astroglide in one of the bathroom cabinets (left over from a woman he'd dated for a month who had a rather wide collection of interesting sex toys), that was in the bathroom, which was at the other end of the hall. “Bedroom,” he said.

Shawn stood up at once, and Lassiter nearly jumped to his own feet. They went down the hall fast, Shawn diverting left into the one bedroom while Lassiter turned right, yanking open a drawer to the side of the sink and pawing through it. He found the bottle and grabbed a towel from the stack on the shelf, pausing for just a second as his reflection in the bathroom mirror caught his eye—his face was flushed, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and his eyes were a little wild. Well, that was to be expected, wasn't it? It'd been awhile since he'd had sex with anyone, and at this moment Shawn Spencer was in his bedroom after practically begging to take it up the ass. Lassiter would definitely give it to him, all he wanted. He turned to go and then he hesitated again, this time frowning at the mirror, feeling slightly disquieted. This Shawn had really come _out_ of the mirror, from another world, so Lassiter's reaction to that was going to be to stick his dick in him?

Why not? he decided. The mirror-version of himself was surely sticking his dick into _his_ world's version of Spencer at this very moment. So what if Lassiter had thought about fucking him himself a few times... he sort of was because _Shawn_ and _Spencer_ were the same. Almost.

He flipped the bathroom light off without thinking further, going into the bedroom and then stopping short—Shawn was on his bed, naked, on his back with his knees bent and his legs apart, just waiting to lift them up. Lassiter dropped the towel and the lube on the bed next to him and pulled his shirt off with one hand, the other yanking down his pants. He left his clothes to land wherever they dropped, got up on the bed, and crawled over Shawn, who wrapped his legs around Lassiter's hips the second he could. Lassiter kissed him hard while pressing him down into the bed, and Shawn moaned again, a sound Lassiter thought he could never get tired of. He groped for the bottle of lube and found it, and then he pulled back, kissed Shawn on the cheek, and sat up on his knees so that he could squeeze some of the gel onto his fingers.

He gripped Shawn's ankle and raised one leg high with one hand, and then he carefully felt for his hole and pushed two fingers inside him. Shawn's eyes rolled back and he moaned again, and Lassiter had to bite his own lip as he sunk his fingers all the way in, pulled back a little, and pushed them into him again. Tight, though not unbearably so, and warm, and now slick. When Lassiter pulled his fingers back and wiped them on the towel, Shawn was empty. Not for long: Lassiter squeezed a small amount of the lube onto the head of his dick and moved into position, gripping Shawn's legs by the backs of his calves and hoisting him up... and then he rocked his hips forward, pushed the head of his cock inside him, and sank in. He couldn't have stopped himself if he tried, which he had no intention of doing now—he kept pushing until he was all the way inside him, while Shawn made more high-pitched moans and murmurs of “oh!” and “fuck,  _yes,_ ” and “ungh, god.”

Lassiter started to fuck him, going slowly at first, not wanting to hurt him but also wanting to make damn sure he was _feeling_ it. His body felt amazing, and it was difficult to hold himself back, especially once he let go of his left leg—which Shawn then wrapped around his hip—and started stroking his dick again. That caused a new flood of moans and gasps, and Lassiter was encouraged, fucking him harder and wanting to make him come all over his hand. Shawn tossed his head back and forth, his fingers gripping the sheets hard, and when he started almost whimpering, Lassiter hesitated, not sure if he was going too hard, and then he heard what he was murmuring: “Please... _please_... god, yes... please...”

“Please what?” Lassiter asked, unsure what it was he wanted.

Shawn laughed softly, which turned into a breathy moan. “Please let me come,” he said, his voice bordering on pleading again. “You... you have to... ohmyguh... you have to tell me I can. I'm sorry, I thought it'd be okay since you're technically not... but I can't.” He smiled, and when he squeezed down on Lassiter's dick, Shawn threw his head back and whimpered again; Lassiter automatically shoved it all the way inside him and then held it there, jerking his cock faster. Shawn started to writhe and buck underneath him, panting and trying to thrust himself down on his cock. “ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered. “Please, Carlton, please tell me... when you'll let me come.” He moaned again, this one sounding nearly desperate, and looked up. “If you'll let me?”

_Christ_ , Lassiter thought, squeezing his dick hard. That was hotter than anything he'd experienced in years—not just being with a man again, or fucking this man in particular, but the way this man gave himself entirely over to Lassiter. He now had complete control over him—he was the _ruler_ of Shawn Spencer, and that knowledge pushed him directly to the edge, where he started to fall.

“Yes,” Lassiter said, trying to will himself to hold on for just another minute so that Shawn could have his orgasm first. He rubbed his thumb over the head of his dick and started pumping it fast again just as he pulled his own cock back a little and then thrust it back into his ass hard. “Now. Come on, Shawn, you come _now._ Let me see it.”

There wasn't much light except for what came in through the door from the hallway, but he did get to see everything then. Shawn never took his eyes away from Lassiter's face as his mouth gasped in a sharp breath, and then his entire body tightened and he started to babble, saying, “oh my _god_ yes _please_ fuck me fuck me Carlton fuck me ohmygod _ohmygod_ yes yes—" and then there was warm, slick liquid in Lassiter's hand, which he used to keep jacking him off until his eyes rolled back and he whimpered again.

Lassiter fell forward then, planting one hand on the bed and sliding the other underneath his back to pull him closer. Shawn threw both arms around his neck and held on while Lassiter started railing him so hard that the bed frame shook. When he came himself, Lassiter held him close and kissed him all over his face, saying, “Shawn... _Shawn_...” as if it was the only thing he ever needed to say again, for the rest of his life. Shawn looked up at him and smiled, and when Lassiter had caught his breath and bent down to hold him and kiss him again, all he knew was that his prior thought could have been true.  


	14. Chapter 14

Shawn awoke when he realized that someone was stroking his arm, but he was entirely too warm and comfortable to open his eyes and acknowledge that he was no longer asleep. It had been long months since he'd woken up with someone else, and although this was all kinds of messed up, it still felt so right that he would have given anything to just bury his face in Carlton's chest and stay like that forever.

He knew that he couldn't, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying to stretch this out as long as possible. He kept his breathing regular and let his other senses work; he was lying on his side, one arm over Carlton's stomach and the other tucked against his own chest, slightly smushed between them, his head on Carlton's shoulder and one leg over and between Carlton's legs. Damn, this was cozy. He realized then that he'd slept so well and so deeply that he hadn't woken up even once—that he didn't remember dreaming at all, which was majorly out of the ordinary. It was good, though—no tossing and turning, waking up tangled in his blankets with vaguely-connected images making him feel anything from uneasy to exasperated to terrified. 

Yeah. He could definitely see how a year of this (among other things) would make Other-Shawn so chill. It must be nice.

“Shawn...” Carlton said softly, still lightly stroking his forearm from wrist to elbow-crease. “I know you're awake.”

“Am not,” he mumbled. “You're imagining it. You're still asleep. Shhh.”

“Nope. For one, I need to use the bathroom.”

Shawn opened his eyes then and craned his neck up enough to look at him. “What's number two?” he asked. “Is it number two?”

“No, number two is breakfast. Number three is usually number two.”

“Well, now I'm getting all mixed up,” Shawn said. “If a train departing Boston on Monday carrying sixty-two cows stops off in Des Moines to let off eighteen cows, but a train departing Atlanta on Tuesday carrying eight sheep and a box of whistles stops in Chicago for some pizza and a Cubs game, who's on first?”

“Your hair is all messy,” Carlton told him.

Shawn's hand flew to the top of his head, where he carefully felt around before returning it to Carlton's stomach, feeling relieved. “No, it's not. I slept like a TV starlet, where I wake up and my everything is perfect.”

“That was my _psychic vision_ for the day,” Carlton said, and then one of his hands rubbed all over the top of Shawn's head.

“No fair!” Shawn howled, sitting up and holding up both hands, trying to ascertain the damage without immediate access to a mirror. As soon as he'd gotten up, Carlton sat up as well, turning and putting both feet on the floor and heading to the bathroom with a smirk. Shawn tried to fix his hair while he pouted, thinking that if he'd gotten his way last night and they'd gone to sleep with him on the outside, he could have more effectively trapped the other man against the wall and maybe could have talked him into another round of nookie before they met up with the others. Maybe they could share a shower. 

Shawn had no such luck in that department; Carlton politely but firmly declined the offer to save water (and, thus, the _Earth_ ) and showered by himself. Then he made face but put on the suit Lassie had brought for him the previous day while Shawn ran through a deliberately-lukewarm spray and then arranged his hair as quickly as he could—not only because Carlton was waiting for him so that they could go get some breakfast, but because looking into mirrors was kinda giving him the creeps in the last couple of days. What if there were _other_ Other-Shawns looking back at him? He didn't have any evidence to say there weren't, not with the way Other-Shawn had randomly popped out of one. 

They went to Pearl's, a diner Shawn and Gus frequented but Carlton said he'd never been to, hoping that the servers wouldn't recognize Detective Lassiter and Lassie wouldn't have to answer questions about why he'd been to breakfast with Shawn, who he supposedly couldn't stand. Shawn wondered how well Lassie had stood Other-Shawn last night... which put him in a sulky mood again, one that wasn't alleviated even when the server brought him pancakes covered in sliced bananas, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. 

Carlton, on the other hand, seemed to be in something of a good mood (a great mood, even, compared to Lassie's temperament just about every time Shawn saw him), humming under his breath while he perused the menu, selected strawberry crepes, and then went to work adding some coffee to his cream and sugar. He dug in when his food arrived, looking pleased at the inclusion of powdered sugar on the crepes, and he looked up at Shawn in time to see him moodily spearing a hunk of banana on the end of his fork. 

“All right, what's wrong with you?” he asked. “You're not eating.”

Shawn guiltily cut a huge hunk of pancake from his stack and then crammed the whole deal into his mouth. “Nuffing,” he said. “How's yours?”

Carlton raised one eyebrow slightly and seemed to be considering him, and Shawn dropped his eyes back down to his plate to avoid his gaze. He wondered briefly if that look worked on Other-Shawn, and then he realized that it must, if it was already starting to work on him as well. “It's fine,” Carlton said after a moment. There was silence between them for another few seconds, and then— “You're not regretting last night, are you?”

Shawn nearly choked on his latest mouthful of pancakes in his hurry to deny it. He grabbed for his juice and gulped it while shaking his head. “No, no way! Why would you even think that?”

“You're very quiet,” Carlton said, still scrutinizing him.

Shawn took that opportunity to glance around them, both making sure no one else was within hearing range and getting those piercing blues out of his brain. He shrugged. “Other-Shawn is quiet. Quieter than me, anyway.”

“Mmhm,” Carlton said softly. “And you're not him.” Pause. “You're also not looking at me—classic sign of either guilt or disinterest.”

Well, maybe he had a point there; with one of those, at least. Shawn forced himself to look back over the table at him. “Carlton,” he said seriously, “don't be peanut butter and toe jam. There's no way I would ever not be un-disinterested.”

“Uh huh. The double-talk doesn't help, you know.”

“I absolutely don't know no such thing.”

“Okay, have it your way,” Carlton said, sighing, and he returned his attention to his food. 

Shawn slumped a little in his seat, hating himself a little for blathering and pushing away someone that really wanted to know how he was feeling and what he was thinking, and hating it even more that he felt like he had to, because he wasn't really the one the other man cared about. “We should do more investigating today,” he said, wanting to break the silence as much as actually making a plan. 

“Yes,” Carlton said expectantly, as if he was one inch to the side of too polite to add, _duh_. 

Shawn licked his lips, and not just because they were semi-coated in chocolate. “I meant... _we_ should do more investigating today,” he said. “Let Other-Shawn hang out with Lassie if they're enjoying each other so much by now.”

Carlton gave him a very long look at that; Shawn wanted badly to drop his eyes, but this time he didn't let himself—he _had_ to start showing his sincerity sometime, if he ever wanted to be able to make a habit of it, and who better to try it out on? (There was always Gus, Shawn reminded himself, but his best friend almost always knew when he really meant something despite anything he said or showed.)

“I'm sure my other self will want to conduct the investigation and order the rest of us around in whichever way makes him feel in control of the whole situation,” Carlton said finally.

“I'm sure he will too,” Shawn said. “He's got some major chilly willies going on.”

Carlton raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you talking about the penguin?”

Shawn brightened at the mention of one of his fifteen favorite animals. “Why? Do you like penguins?”

“They're fine.”

“Does Lassie not like penguins?” Shawn wondered. How could someone not like penguins?

Carlton gave him another long look. After a few seconds, he snorted. “You meant heebie-jeebies. I would assume he doesn't care one way or the other about penguins: it's you he has a hard time working with. And me,” he added, as Shawn's face and brief excitement sagged. “My guess is that he's going to want to work alone today.”

“Oh. So me and Other-Shawn will just have to work together... with you.” Shawn grinned then. “I'm thinking we can be a handful. But you have two hands.”

“Uh huh,” Carlton said, and refilled his coffee. His tone was dismissive, but Shawn could have sworn he was also considering the possibilities there. Maybe that was just wishful thinking. 

When they got back to Shawn's apartment, Other-Shawn was there, lounging on the sofa and flipping channels on the TV. He grinned widely the second he saw Shawn come through the front door and hastily got to his feet. Shawn quickly glanced around, but despite the still-early hour, he didn't see anyone else. “Where's Lassie?” he asked.

“Work,” Other-Shawn said. “Chief Vick called him about an hour ago and said for him to come meet her in her office, so he just dropped me off here.”

Convenient, Shawn thought. He was sure his double was telling the truth, that Lassie really had been called in early to the PD, but now Lassie had skated by any sort of awkward confrontation he'd have with Shawn and Carlton after what they'd said to each other—and what they'd all planned to do—last night. Speaking of that. Shawn looked at Other-Shawn, wanting badly to ask him how it went with Lassie—how far they'd gone, how it was (the sex, if they'd had any), how Lassie was, if being with him was the same as being with Carlton—but then he saw his mirror-twin's eyes shift to the man standing behind him, and he knew Other-Shawn would barely register him as a sentient life form for the next few seconds at least. He watched Carlton step to the side of him, deliberately look Other-Shawn up and down, and then hold up one crooked finger, beckoning him closer.

“Come here,” he said softly. Other-Shawn obeyed at once, stopping directly in front of him with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, a big smile on his face. Carlton looked down at him for a few seconds, and then he gently laid a hand on the side of Other-Shawn's face, stroked his cheek with his thumb, and bent down to kiss him. Other-Shawn let go of his own hands and swung them around Carlton, stepping into him and holding him around his back tightly. Shawn watched them kissing and felt further subdued, although he couldn't take his eyes away. After a moment, Carlton's hand moved down from Other-Shawn's cheek to his chin, tipping it up to break their kiss and to remake their eye contact. “I love you,” he said. “You, Shawn. You're mine.”

“Yes,” Other-Shawn said at once, smiling.

Shawn felt an urge to point his finger down his throat and make gagging noises—their lovey-dovey stuff was almost too sweet to handle. (He ignored the idea that came with the thought: that if it was him Carlton was looking at instead of Other-Shawn, he would still be completely aware of how preciously adorable they were being, but that he wouldn't give a shit, which was almost certainly Other-Shawn's stance at the time being.) Instead, he turned and went into the kitchen; he opened the refrigerator, saw nothing spectacular, closed it again, glanced around the counter, saw a stray packet of Parmesan cheese (left over from the last time he'd ordered a pizza), decided to try it by itself, and ended up coughing out a dried cheese cloud. 

Other-Shawn appeared in the doorway, looking more curious than concerned. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Are you dying? If you die in this world, will I still be able to get back to mine?”

“Priorities,” Shawn reminded him, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Yeah,” Other-Shawn agreed. “That's mine. So, what are we going to do today, then? Carlton said you mentioned investigating, and the other Carlton said he had too much 'actual police work' to do with that Mirror-Smash Murder to keep trying to figure out our situation here, even though I really think they're tied in together.”

“Lassie didn't want to work with any of us?” Although this had been predicted—and by the person who would have had the most authority to make such claims—Shawn was disappointed that he'd actually said so. A thought came to him then, and he cocked his head to one side, studying his mirror-twin. “Did you give him a bad time, or something?”

“Uh, no,” Other-Shawn said, and then he grinned, and Shawn could swear that he was being overtly smug about it. Maybe he wasn't; maybe that's what Shawn's face always looked like when he grinned. Maybe that's why Gus always yelled at him for being self-satisfied when all he was doing was being pleased about a situation. “It was... wait, you spill first.” He folded his arms. “You're the one that was with _my_ boyfriend.”

Aha! His moment to gloat. Shawn gave his double a toothpaste-shiny grin of his own. “I sure was. And, truth be told, I _did_ spill first.”

Other-Shawn may have been a little more easygoing than Shawn himself was in a lot of ways, but the last couple of days had shown him that he could still be an obnoxious, competitive little reflector-reject. “Oh, yeah,” Other-Shawn said, fake-loftily, waving a hand. “Me too. Not that it took much—trust me, buddy, he _still_ knows what to do and how to do it.”

“Still?!”

Other-Shawn relented then, or at least he realized that he really did seem to have some unfair upper hand, not only when it came to his sexual experiences with both versions of Carlton Lassiter, but with his knowledge of the man's hidden personality and past. “Hey, I'm starving,” he said. “We got woke up super early by Chief Vick calling, and I barely got time to shower, let alone hunt down a Pop Tart. I could really go for a donut. Or a smoothie. Or even a donut-flavored smoothie. You want to go for a drive?”

Shawn knew that he was trying to extend a kind of tree branch, but instead of taking it, he kind of wanted to just smack him with it. On the other hand, a donut-flavored smoothie sounded amazing, and the offer to actually talk was real. It would probably be easier than attempting to do it in the kitchen, with Carlton right there in the living room. Besides, it was probably all kinds of pointless to get into a pissing match with himself. “Okay,” he said. “But you better not be lying about the donut-smoothie.”

“Buddy! Would I lie to me? About delicious flavors?”

“Can't argue with that,” Shawn said, and followed him out of the kitchen.

Carlton had settled himself in the armchair and had a notebook and a pen in his lap, along with Shawn's cordless phone. (Which surprised him—he hadn't even known it still worked.) “We're going to go for breakfast and have some more girl talk,” Other-Shawn said, when he looked up at them and raised his eyebrows. “Are you in?”

Carlton rolled his eyes. “I'd rather wear hemp underwear,” he said. “I'm going to see how much investigating I can do from here, on the phone, without tripping over my other self and whatever he's investigating.”

“I'll bring you a donut,” Other-Shawn said. 

“You'd better bring two, so that when you eat one on the way back, I still get one.”

“We'll bring a whole box,” Shawn promised. 

Other-Shawn gave him a quick look, but said nothing more until they went down to the parking lot. “Can I drive?”

“No way—Gus said I was the only one.”

“I'm you! And I'll tell you something juicy.”

“You're going to anyway.”

“But I know the way to the cool donut-smoothie place.”

“I think you made it up,” Shawn said. “I know all of the best places in town to eat, and if that one was on the route, all of the staff would be on my Christmas card list by now.”

“It's brand new,” Other-Shawn assured him. “If I'm lying, I'm crying.” After a pause in which Shawn still looked at him skeptically, he shrugged. “And I'm buying?”

“Fine,” Shawn said, and he tossed him the Blueberry's keys. He waited until they got into the car and his other self pulled out onto the road before he pounced. “All right—cat out of the bag, worms out of the can, rooster out of the henhouse: what did you mean, 'still'?”

“You first,” Other-Shawn said unconcernedly, making a left turn. “How'd it go with him last night?”

“Great,” Shawn nearly snapped. “He fucked me so good that he didn't get a chance to tell me it was okay to come, because I lost it before I could even say anything.”

“Mmm,” Other-Shawn sighed, looking pleased and wistful. “It's been a long time since he's let me do that... he probably couldn't read you as well—he knows when I'm getting too close and he'll either stop me or stop entirely until I'm under control enough to get permission. I almost can't anymore unless he says I can... I'll just get closer and closer until I feel like I'm going to break apart, but he knows how to hold me in one piece.”

Shawn thought about that. “So does that mean you didn't come with Lassie?”

Other-Shawn grinned again. “I thought you wanted me to explain how he still knew how to sex-coma a dude.”

“I do! Come on, I told _you_ how it went!”

“Not entirely,” Other-Shawn said. “I'll tell you everything, I pinkie swear, okay? But you spent the night with Carlton, so I deserve to get story time first.”

“You were with Lassie!”

“Who you don't have any rights of claiming over,” Other-Shawn insisted. “Carlton is my boyfriend, not yours.”

“Jealous,” Shawn said, scowling. 

Other-Shawn snorted. “Look who's talking, buddy.”

Shawn glared at him. “So maybe I am,” he said. “So what? It's not fair. It's not fair that you get to be with him in your world, and it's _hella_ not fair that he likes you better than me in mine.” There, he'd said it—and he folded his arms for good measure.

“We're the same person.”

“Apparently not to Lassie.”

Other-Shawn sighed again. “Fine. I'll tell you part of it first if you stop being half a can of broken Pringles.” He glanced over and then gestured between them. “Come on. I was serious about breakfast and we don't need to look like a set of twins having a sibling feud in the middle of the road.”

Shawn unfolded his arms. “Tell me the 'still' part, and I'll tell you the rest of my night, and then you tell me the rest of your night.”

“Deal. The 'still' part is that he's been with guys before, which I would have thought was self-explanatory,” Other-Shawn said. “Though I guess if he's spent all this time pinging back and forth on your gaydar, while I was pretty damn sure he liked guys each time he stuck it to me, you might be reeling a little.”

Shawn nodded slowly. “I thought so sometimes, but I just couldn't tell for sure.”

“Yeah, he's definitely bisexual. He had a thing with a guy his second year in college, then couple of flings after he graduated, and then a kinda-sorta serious relationship before he met his wife. No one since then—until me, anyway.”

Shawn didn't say anything to that; part of him had thought for a long time that if Lassie really did like guys, than it wasn't that he couldn't be interested in Shawn... it was that he didn't want to be, that something about Shawn himself repulsed the other man. Well, at least now he knew... and he had a fairly good idea, from both Other-Shawn and from Carlton himself, what that thing about him was. He still didn't know what, if anything, he could feasibly do about it. 

“Your turn,” Other-Shawn prompted. 

Shawn shrugged. “I already told you we did the no-pants dance. Did you want the play-by-play?”

“Of course I do—don't you?”

He had a point.

“I want to know every single little detail,” Other-Shawn went on. “And I'll return in kind, don't worry. So... c'mon, what did he make you do? And what did he do to you?”

Since he had his mirror-twin's promise to repay the favor, Shawn recounted his night with Carlton, including their conversations both before and after their horizontal bop. Other-Shawn listened raptly, only breaking in once: as Shawn relayed how Carlton had complained that the bed was pushed into the corner, Other-Shawn reminded him that he'd told him on their very first meeting that Carlton wouldn't have approved of it. 

Shawn scoffed and held up his first fingers and thumbs, touching the tips of his thumbs together to make a W. “Your turn,” he said then. “How'd it go with Lassie?”

“Great,” Other-Shawn said, grinning again. “I was only seventy-five percent sure anything was actually going to happen when we got to his apartment, but that bumped up to ninety-five fairly quickly once I sat in his lap to watch the movie and he let me stay there the whole time.” 

Shawn was surprised, but he managed to keep his mouth shut while Other-Shawn told him how Lassie had actually seemed comfortable enough getting cozy with him during the movie, how he'd let Other-Shawn massage his hand, how that hand had gone from his thigh to his dick. Shawn almost zoned out while he listened, unable to stop himself imagining it had been him in his double's place for all of it and feeling a huge, hot spike of jealousy sink into his stomach as Other-Shawn described how Lassie had held him and kissed him when they'd been in bed together. Being with Carlton had been great, no arguments there—but he hadn't been the one Shawn really wanted, just like he wasn't the one Carlton really loved. Apparently that went both ways too. 

“And then I woke up when his phone went off, and he practically cracked a whip at my heels to get me moving fast enough so that he could drop me off at your place and get to the station,” Other-Shawn finished. “Your morning was miles cozier, it sounds like. It's a little surprising how much he likes just lying around in bed on days he doesn't have to work, huh? He still wakes up at the ass-crack of dawn, though, so if I'm still asleep he just holds me and lounges around. He says it's good thinking time, which I found slightly creepy at first—who seriously wakes up hours before their boyfriend and then just stays there watching him sleep and _thinking_ —but I've woken up early a few times and that's really all he's doing: just being quiet and cuddly. And I guess it makes me feel all 'warm strawberry syrup' inside, so I can let it slide.”

“I don't know how much sooner he woke up than me,” Shawn said. “He made me get up because I was lying on him and he needed to go number four—that's two number twos, or one two and two ones, by the way—but it was super annoying.”

“Really? Why?”

Shawn glanced down into the side mirror and adjusted one of his hair spikes. “Because my hair is serious business, that's why. Carlton thought it'd be a real knee-slapper to mess it all up in a distraction move to get me to sit up.”

Other-Shawn snorted. “Yeah, he's got a million tricks. I notice that you're using his name a lot more.”

Shawn shrugged. “That's what you call him, and you're more... familiar, I guess. If I tried that with Lassie, he'd probably think I was up to something.”

Other-Shawn shrugged back. “I've been calling him Carlton too. He did seem to think it was weird at first, but my Spidey senses tell me that was only because he wasn't used to you doing it. He thinks you're making fun of him every time you call him 'Lassie'.”

“I was, originally, but now it's just... his name. I'm actually not trying to piss him off with it anymore.”

“I know—I told him that, too. And that I still sometimes call Carlton 'Lassie' myself. Mostly when other people are around. Not that other people don't know about us—he just accepts my teasing more now that he knows it's because he doesn't have any pigtails for me to pull.” 

Shawn couldn't help but to envision Carlton Lassiter with pigtails; then, just as he was about to burst into laughter, another thought erased the picture entirely. “Does Henry know?”

Other-Shawn gave him a Please, Son! look. “Of course not. I told him we moved in together to save money on shampoo and Netflix. Also, in my world, Dad is blind, deaf, and he carries around a raggedy stuffed frog called Squeezor.”

“Keep it up and you're going to carry around a raggedy stuffed frog called Squeezor!” Shawn shot back. 

“I would never,” Other-Shawn insisted. “It's a rubber cabbage that smells like the sheets after Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald have a tumble or nothing.”

Shawn opened his mouth, closed it again, thought about that, and then nodded. “Yeah, I guess I would carry that around.”

“Damn right.” Other-Shawn stopped the car at a red light and lightly tapped the steering wheel with his fingertips. “Yeah, man, of course Henry knows. Everyone does, really—but we don't talk about it when we're working, and Vick and Jules and everyone at the PD pretend like they don't know it's a thing.”

Shawn was a little fascinated at that—not so much the 'everyone else butting out' bit, although that was a small miracle in and of itself, but with the idea that his father was aware that a) he liked guys, b) he was living with one, and c) that guy was the police department's head detective. “So—so what, he approves?” he asked, frowning. “Because Lassie's a cop?” Oops, that one was a slip— _Carlton_ was a cop, he was the one Other-Shawn was living with. The other thing was that he was a man, and Shawn had very carefully never once allowed the subject of gay relationships or bisexuality to come up between himself and his father. He had no concrete reason for doing so—Henry hadn't ever offered his opinion on dudes dating other dudes, and Shawn certainly hadn't ever asked for it—but there was so little in his life that his father seemed to have ever to approved of, and he hadn't wanted to know for sure that that part of who he was would be another sharp rock in the sagging disappointment basket. 

Other-Shawn shrugged. “I'm sure that's part of it. And that he knows that Carlton doesn't take any of my crap and that being with him has helped me sail a little smoother over the last several months.”

“He makes you sail?” Shawn said, aghast.

“Big Butter Jesus, no!” Other-Shawn snorted. “But they go fishing sometimes.”

“That's weird, buddy,” Shawn said solemnly.

“I know—and what's weirder is that I'm pretty sure they've had that What Are Your Intentions Regarding My Son talk.” 

Shawn shook his head briskly to rattle that image loose. “So—so Dad knows you have a boyfriend, and he's... he's fine with it? Did he need time to get used to the idea, or...?”

Other-Shawn shrugged again. “Not really.” He looked over at Shawn and his next words were soft. “He's always known, man. He's just waiting for you to be ready to tell him.”

Shawn turned away and stared out of the window. It seemed like a lot of things had been waiting on him for awhile and he hadn't even known it; he hadn't known how long his life had been stagnating like still water in a pond because he was too chickenshit to stir up what might be lurking in the depths. 

The car stopped at another red light, and Other-Shawn pointed across an intersection, beaming. “Look, Smooth Move—they're here in this world too. I honestly wasn't a hundred percent on that.”

Shawn made an impatient 'tsk!' noise. “You dick, what if they weren't here? You promised me a donut-flavored smoothie.”

“And I delivered,” Other-Shawn said, accelerating as the light turned green and sliding them into a parking space on the street.

Shawn was so enamored by the menu options that he nearly forgot his current place on the regional brooding team. “I want the Wham Jam Twister,” he announced. “No—I want the Dark Bismarck, with extra dark. No, I want—” He made an involuntary whimper and glanced at his mirror-twin in desperation. “What are you getting?”

Other-Shawn beamed and pointed to the far right corner of the menu board. “I, my Smooth Noob friend, am getting the... oh, hey!”

Shawn frowned a little at the choices up on the board, trying to pick out what Other-Shawn was naming as his choice, and then he realized that his double was no longer looking at the menu, but at a table in the corner. He started to say, “Hey what?” and then he saw her. “Oh! Lady Bela—that wily minx, we spent hours yesterday looking for her after Witchy Wesley said she could help you guys. She managed to elude me _and_ the best head detective around, our star player Carlytown.”

“Let's go talk to her,” Other-Shawn suggested; his tone was casual, but Shawn could tell by the way he set his shoulders and the careful way he watched her that he'd forgotten all about his donut-smoothie. “Maybe she finally got through to the spirits for us.”

Shawn made a face—at least he didn't have the bad taste to forget about what sounded like the best taste. “We can go say hi after we place our orders,” he said. Then he sighed, as Other-Shawn started to saunter over to the corner where she sat, and Shawn followed him while lamenting their lost place as only third in line. 

“Hey, Lady Bela,” Other-Shawn greeted. The woman sipping a cappuccino and staring out of the window didn't look up or acknowledge him at all, so he tried again. “Lady Bela?” Still nothing, and Other-Shawn glanced back with a quizzical look on his face. 

Shawn shrugged—maybe she wasn't into dudes she met only once before approaching her in juice bars to inquire about her séance status. “Alina, my fair—” he began, but he got no further. 

Lady Bela's head turned to look at him, and as soon as her eyes flickered between him and Other-Shawn, her entire body jerked: her right hand dropped her coffee on the edge of the table, where it toppled off and splashed on the floor. At the same time, her left hand hit a small glass container with sweetener packets, and that too fell to the floor, where it shattered. Other-Shawn jumped backwards, and he and Shawn grabbed for each others' arms, startled. 

“Oh my god,” Alina Belavol gasped as one of the restaurant employees came rushing over with a broom, a dustpan, and a wet floor cone. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” the employee said in a soothing voice as she started to sweep up the broken glass. “Can I get you a fresh drink?”

“I'm so sorry.”

“It's cool, it happens,” the Smooth Move girl said. “You're totally fine.”

Lady Bela, Shawn thought, did not seem to be fine. She had spilled what was undoubtedly a delicious drink; however, she didn't seem concerned with her newly coffee-less existence, nor the employee that was trying to be friendly and reassuring—she didn't look at either the mess or the teenager cleaning it up. She stared at Shawn and his mirror twin, and when she said it again, it was clear that she had been saying it to them the whole time.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered. “I don't know how you found me, but I can't—I can't help you.”

Shawn and his double looked at each other in surprise; Other-Shawn looked almost hurt at that and Shawn frowned. “Um, that's okay,” he started to say slowly as he turned back. Then he froze, his mouth dropping open as he saw the empty chair and table. Other-Shawn whirled around, his eyes darting everywhere and landing on nothing. The little smoothie shop was almost entirely deserted now, the few employees still behind the bar finishing up a couple of orders and performing routine cleaning and maintenance on their equipment, a few customers milling about near a stand with straws and napkins, a few more sitting at tables near the door. Lady Bela was nowhere in sight. 

“Holy cripes,” Shawn said. “Where did she go? Did you see—?” He looked Other-Shawn, who shook his head, mystified. The door to the shop opened, and a light tinkling accompanied the entrance of two teenagers, who went right to the counter and placed orders. Shawn frowned again; he hadn't heard the bell a moment ago. “Did you see where that woman went?” he asked the Smooth Move girl as she stood up with her dust pan full of broken glass and Sweet & Low.

“No, sorry, I didn't,” the employee said, and then she indicated the brownish puddle on the tile. “If you guys want to head up to the counter, I'm sure Jason can get your order while I take care of this coffee.” She gave them a perfunctory smile before turning and scurrying off to get a mop.

“What did she mean, she can't help us?” Shawn said. He looked at his doppelganger, realizing abruptly that Other-Shawn hadn’t said anything since he first tried to get Lady Bela’s attention .

“I don't know,” Other-Shawn said slowly. “But I think we need to make it our top priority to find her again. There's something...” He frowned deeply, closed his eyes, and lightly touched his temple with two fingers, trying to focus.

After a moment in which his double didn't move, Shawn shifted, a little weirded out but now impatient to get his snack on. “After smoothies?” he asked, trying to sound more certain than he felt.

Other-Shawn dropped his arm to his side and opened his eyes, just looking at him. “Sure,” he said finally, in a low voice. “You go on and get back in line; I'm going to call Carlton and let him know that she matches the description of the missing woman from the mirror shop murder that the clerk gave us—right down to the scar on her neck.”

“What?” Shawn hissed. “I thought you said she dis—” He stopped.

“Disappeared?”

Shawn scowled and called up his own mental image of Lady Bela the first time he'd seen her in her shop; she'd been wearing a lot of scarves, but they had been loose. “Your memory is getting too desperate, man. She didn't have a scar on her neck,” he said firmly.

“No,” Other-Shawn said dryly. “She didn't.”


	15. Chapter 15

At around ten o'clock the next morning, Carlton Lassiter found himself thinking about the phrase _I knew I should have stayed in bed today_. 

O'Hara had occasionally mumbled just such a thing while rubbing her temples if they were neck-deep in paperwork, or stuck trying to track down a suspect that refused to sit still and be arrested and stop making them look bad. He'd never been one for lounging around in bed for no reason himself; even when he was sick he would find a way to make it at least as far as the sofa. He didn't even sleep in much when his days off rolled around; there were always things to do, and he didn't like even slightly resembling some lazy shiftless idiot who contributed nothing to society. 

This particular day, however... 

True, it had been the first morning in months that he'd awoken and not been alone in his bed. But that was only the state of things for approximately five minutes—the amount of time it took for him to answer his phone, promise his chief he'd be in immediately, and unwrap Spencer #2's arms from around his middle before yanking the blankets off him in an effort to get him up and at 'em before he could ask any questions or even look him in the eye. Not that he felt he was in any position to look Shawn in the face after last night. 

He dropped Shawn off at Spencer #1's apartment and got to the station, telling himself that the dullness he felt was due to the weather, which was clouding over. He went to Vick's office at once, wanting to dive into work and stay in it until the familiar riptide of procedure and the badge and investigation pulled him under. Vick was on the phone in her office, and he double-tapped on the side of her doorway, standing up straight with his shoulders back, when she glanced up at him. 

“Yes, I'll look into it,” she told someone, hung up the phone, and beckoned him in. “Carlton. Did you make any progress on locating the missing woman from the scene of that murder at the Mirror Maze shop yesterday?”

He shook his head. “The security footage was corrupted; we couldn't get anything from it. Forensics found a couple of fingerprints on some of the glass near the body, but there were no hits when I left last night, and we couldn't be sure they weren't from store patrons anyway.”

“I see.” Vick was giving him an odd look that he didn't like. “Detective O'Hara has four more days of her vacation left, as you know, but I feel certain that if I were to call her to request she cut it off early in order to assist her partner with a difficult case—“

“No,” he said, more sharply than he meant to, and he straightened his tie while Vick raised her eyebrows slightly. He could work the case solo just fine. He'd worked dozens of others on his own and had done it so well that he was the youngest Head Detective the department had ever had. Did she think he was slipping? Just because everything he'd ever believed about reality was coming undone didn't mean he was suddenly the McNab of detectives. Besides, O'Hara had earned her vacation. And he had more than enough to deal with at the moment without her getting even a _hint_ of what was going on. “O'Hara deserves her time off,” he said firmly. “She—and her color-coded graph paper for suspect charts—will be back next week, and I'll catch her up then. I fully expect to have this wrapped up before she needs to be brought in, anyway.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Vick said, although she was still—irritatingly—giving him the searching look. He was just about to ask (pointedly, with a note of _you're holding me up from doing my job_ in his voice) about it when she gave it to him. “And what about Mr. Spencer? Did you decide we would need his consultation services on the case?”

He shrugged, trying to buy time by not seeming to care while frantically examining possible answers and throwing them aside. Obviously she knew that he'd had Shawn at the crime scene yesterday, and she would also obviously know that she hadn't approved of his presence or requested his services herself. The explanation he'd given Shawn himself would have to do. “Not exactly. He caught me outside yesterday when I came in to update you about the Knutsen witness statement for the Bayview Hotel robberies and told me he'd had some whacko 'vision' about a case in a house of mirrors, or something. I was going to ignore him, but then you gave me this case, and when I got back to my desk he was there, telling me the case he'd 'divined' was a murder that had to do with smashed glass. That was fairly specific—and he wasn't close enough to your office to hear you telling me about it—so I let him come along. Unofficially. Since he'd just sneak in anyway. Also unofficially. And without supervision.” He realized she was just looking at him and he shut up, resisting an urge to bite his tongue hard. 

“I see,” she said again. “Are you formally requesting Mr. Spencer's assistance, then? Since you _unofficially_ allowed him into an _official_ crime scene?”

Ah. He knew that tone—she was in damage control, and he was in trouble for breaking protocol. She was also a little confused, or she would have made it clear that she'd missed her morning Danish by having him for breakfast the second he walked in; he just couldn't tell if she thought he and Spencer had something going on, or perhaps she was too shocked at the notion that he'd willingly work with someone he deemed beneath him just a week ago. “Yes,” he said carefully. “He did have a... vision... in the Mirror Maze shop that the victim was trying to get away from something, and the positioning of the body supported that. He might be useful.”

She paused. “That's—you're telling me that you'd rather work with Mr. Spencer, right now, than to call Detective O'Hara back from her vacation?”

Lassiter made a face. Why did it have to be an either/or choice? “Chief, I'm confident that I can make headway on this case without bringing in the entire cavalry,” he said. “I'll give you an update later today.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said briskly, and she returned her attention to a file on her desk. “Dismissed.”

It wasn't until he was back at his desk that he got it, and for almost an entire minute he battled between hot indignation and the almost uncontrollable urge to fall down laughing. She was concerned that he couldn't handle working without O'Hara because he was too attached to O'Hara—so attached that he lost all of his instincts as a detective and had to fall back on Smartass Shawn Spencer to get through a case. Jesus wept. He'd almost rather she think he did something even more ridiculous, like collecting sea sponges shaped like Hello Kitty or voting Democrat. 

He'd just sat down at his desk when his phone rang. “Lassiter,” he snapped into it.

“Hey there, Detective, it's Brian Michaels again,” a deep voice said. “I finally managed to get that information for you. So, it turns out that Wesley Bostin doesn't have any priors other than the normal traffic violations. He's lodged a few complaints himself—claiming harassment and loitering of some kids that hang around near his shop—but nothing more than that. You asked if he'd never actually been married, but he was—for about eight months, six years ago. Ex is fine and well and living in Washington State. You're right that he seems like a buffet of bananas, crackers, and nuts, but of the relatively harmless variety. That about do ya, or would you like hard copies sent over?”

Lassiter had no idea what on Earth this man was talking about. “Wesley Bostin,” he said slowly, trying to place the name.

“I guess that doesn't sound hippie-dippie enough to run a magic shop, so he signed his lease 'Wesley Windfair',” Michaels said, and snorted. 

Lassiter pressed his lips together and rubbed at his temple. Wesley plus magic shop equaled the man Spencer #1 and Lassiter's double had spoken to while Lassiter himself and Spencer #2 were investigating the Mirror Maze crime scene. _Real_ investigating—not whatever said double was up to, trying to sneak around him and get information that didn't even add up to anything. “I guess not,” he said. “Thanks for your help.” 

He hung up in the middle of Michaels saying 'No probl—' and picked up his cell phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found Spencer's home number. (O'Hara had programmed it into his phone months ago, claiming that his address book held five hundred contacts by default, and part of being good detectives was being able to contact any and all resources at a moments' notice. He'd taught her that.) He got up and walked away from the bullpen, continuing down the hall and outside of the building, before hitting the call button, knowing that the walls always had ears. He got into his car, holding the phone to his ear and waiting, thinking that he was most likely going to be hearing his own voice, and then he was both pissed off and vindicated when he was proven right five seconds later. 

“Lassiter.”

“No,” he said. “That would be _me_. This is _my_ world, or did you forget? I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but any cases going on here are mine, not yours.” He paused. “And why the hell are you answering _Spencer's_ phone with _my_ name? Why don't you save time and put up a billboard advertising that something hinky is going on? Not to mention the mirror-doubles bullshit.”

“Wipe the foam from your mouth before people start thinking you're catching,” Lassiter's double said. “Shawn's phone has caller ID—I knew it was you calling because the display said 'Cranky Lanky'.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Stop trying to investigate my cases. Someone just called me with information you requested, and before long someone's going to realize it's not me doing it.”

“Maybe you should've been,” his double said. “Was it about Wesley Breakingwind?”

“Bostin,” Lassiter said slowly, thinking that the other man sounded exactly like Spencer, which meant he was far more out of it than he admitted. “Yeah. No priors, not married. Why, were you starting to really believe his wife had the ability to flit back and forth between female and feline?”

“No, I wanted to make sure he didn't kill his wife and turn her into cat food.”

“Great. Well, job not-even-almost well done. Why don't you investigate what's happened to the better part of your judgment while I'm doing real police work?”

“Which part would that be, exactly? The same part you checked in with at all times last night?”

Lassiter glared out of his windshield and clenched his jaw. 

“Find half an hour to come back here,” his double said after a moment. “I've been checking into the people Shawn and—and Shawn, I guess—and I have all talked to so far, the ones they thought were possible leads. It sounds like Wesley Whatshisface is a bust, but I may have something on someone they talked to but I wasn't able to meet when Shawn and I went back. Name's Alina Belavol—twenty-nine, Ukrainian, suspicious circumstances involving the disappearance of her boyfriend five years ago. Shawn—my Shawn, I mean—told me that she claimed to know something about spells involving the transportation of spirits across worlds. I tried to tell him, 'Bullshit'.” Pause. “I couldn't.”

Lassiter exhaled hard through his nose, not wanting his double to hear him sigh. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “I'll get there when I can.”

He flipped his phone closed and stared out of his window for five minutes, seeing through everything and arriving at no answers because there was nothing to see. Not yet.

He waited until after his shift was over to go to Spencer's apartment; partly because he couldn't help but to put off seeing all three of them for as long as he could, and partly because he was actually trying to make some damn headway in the damn case, dammit. Forensics had come back with a match to one of the prints found at the scene in the Mirror Maze, and it had identified the man who had gone through the glass (or... hadn't gone through, if Spencer #2 was right), so Lassiter had paid a visit to the victim's next-of-kin, delivering the news to his parents and trying to wheedle information out of them while trying to appear sensitive so that they would talk. O'Hara was better at that crap. He'd never deny that she was useful and that he'd be glad to have her back... later. 

He'd found out that Greg Truner had recently gotten a new job, that he'd been upset about a breakup in the last few weeks, and that he'd borrowed a couple of thousand dollars from his father to cover a few credit card debts. AKA gambling debts, according to the background check Lassiter had run. The check had also revealed him to have been arrested several times for assault and battery, including one for domestic assault when he was twenty-three and one for a bar fight the same year. When Lassiter asked Truner's parents how well he was liked among family, friends, coworkers, he caught them glance at each other for a split second before Frank Truner invited him to leave the grieving parents in peace. He had gone, but had no intention of _staying_ gone—they were clearly covering something up. 

He knew he wasn't going to get anywhere more that night, however, and if his mirror-double really did have pertinent information, he'd better look into it. He _was_ point on the case. He shut his car off in Spencer's parking lot just after six and sighed. He decided to do his best to stay focused on the case and to keep everyone else's attention there. That was the best course of action at this juncture.

He knocked on Spencer's door firmly, and then he rolled his eyes when he heard his own voice call, “It's open.” Never would he have ever just allowed an unknown person to come into _his_ home—or the home where he was staying. He opened the door and went inside, saw his double in an armchair with piles of yellow paper in his lap and on the chair armrests, and prepared to give him a clearly well-needed lecture on home security... and then he realized that the other man had known it was him, either because he'd been expecting him or because he had the same knock. Probably both. Instead, he just rolled his eyes and glanced around the room, which was suspiciously quiet.

“Where are they?” he asked.

His double made a heavy double-underline of something on one of his note sheets. “Food,” he said. “They're supposed to be investigating, but...” He shrugged, still not looking up. “Shawn called and asked me five minutes ago if I preferred shrimp or chicken, so.”

Lassiter frowned. “Shouldn't he know what you prefer, if you've been dating him?”

The other man finally looked up. “It was your Shawn who called.”

Lassiter pressed his lips together, annoyed. “He isn't _my_ anything.”

“So you've said.” The other Lassiter rolled his eyes and indicated the sofa with the end of his pen. “Sit down—I have some more information, and you might actually be able to help, here.”

Lassiter wanted to refuse the instruction, but if the other man really did have more information that might lead to resolving this mess, he wanted to hear it. He sat on the edge of the sofa, seeing that something was different about it than the last time he'd been to this apartment, but not immediately knowing what. He frowned again and then turned it on his doppelganger. “So what's the story?”

“Both Shawns went for breakfast this morning to a smoothie restaurant,” the other Lassiter reported, glancing at a sheet of notes. “They came upon Alina Belavol there—I didn't know this yet when I talked to you earlier, but it looks like I'm right, and this woman has a lot of secrets I want explained. Along with her weird history of the missing boyfriend, and Shawn and I not being able to find her just yesterday, she apparently 'literally disappeared' from the restaurant right in front of them, after responding in a panicked way when they spoke to her.”

“Literally disappeared?” Lassiter repeated. “What does that mean? Nobody uses that word correctly.” O'Hara often didn't, and it drove him nuts. 

“They said they both glanced at each other when she told them she was sorry for something, and when they looked back a couple of seconds later, she was gone. The store was almost empty, so she wasn't lost in a crowd, they weren't directly in front of the door, and neither heard the bell on the door ding as if it had been opened.” He paused and looked up. “She was just gone. Sound familiar?”

It did, but it sounded like a stretch, especially in these circumstances. “Tell me everything they said from the beginning,” he ordered. “Every word.”

The other man selected another sheet with what Lassiter recognized as Spencer #1's handwriting on it, and he held it out. “Here. I had them each write a witness account; read for yourself.”

Lassiter leaned forward enough to snatch the paper, and then he sat back to read it, regretting the move almost instantly.  


> _What Happened During My Some More Breakfast Vacation  
>  by Shawn, age 31 ½_
> 
> _It was a bright and sunny day, and my guts were partly full of pancakes but mostly full of indignation. Carlton and I woke up and had breakfast at Pearl's (see: pancakes) and when we got back to my apt. my mirror-twin was there. How did he even get in? I actually locked the door that time I swear to Dog. Anyway he was being a jerk and trying to rub my face in ~~what he got to do last n~~ something, but then he said he would buy me the most amazing sounding smoothie in existence. Listen to this: a smoothie that is like drinking a donut. Doesn't that sound like our best option for the next Noble Prize? I always thought smoothies were strictly fruit flavored but some donuts have fruit. Some have chocolate and that sounded good too but there were actually about 47 options and I couldn't decide what to try first. I saw they have a punch card so I know I'm going to be trying all of them and when Gus gets back he has to try all of them too. Everyone that works there is going on my Christmas card list. Would it be too soon to tell them I loved them? It seems like it's too soon, but my heart knows what my heart knows._

  
Lassiter looked up, annoyed. “This is just a review for what sounds like the stupidest idea for a restaurant I've heard since I was dragged to the _Nutter Butter Hutter_.”

His double snorted. “Right. I know you liked the sandwich my Shawn got you to try. And read on—he got to the point eventually. He always does, if you just let him.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes again and skimmed a couple more paragraphs about the different types of smoothies Spencer thought he'd seen, new ideas for some more varieties, and then some ideas for more foods to be made into smoothie-form. (“Mashed potatoes and gravy for those cold nights, maybe drinkable stuffing for Thanksgiving with a cranberry swirl”? Idiot.) When he got to the opposite side of the page, he finally found the relevant information.  


> _I didn't want to lose our place in line, but other Shawn was all 'Let's go say hi to Lady Bela' and then just started walking, like he didn't even care about the Long John Juiceberry. We went over to her table and other Shawn tried to talk to her, but he spoke to her twice and she didn't even look up. I got a little freaked out I admit and I thought maybe I was the only one who could see him (well I guess OBVIOUSLY Lassie can see him too) which would make the whole thing a little more weird yet possibly easier to deal with, so I started to talk to her and then she freaked out and knocked her drink and a glass container of sugar substitute on the floor, which made a big broken glass coffee mess. A girl that works at the restaurant came over to clean it up and Lady Bela kept saying “I'm sorry” and the girl thought she was talking to her and told her it was okay, but she was looking at us, at me and other Shawn, and she said “I'm so sorry, I don't know how you found me, but I can't help you”. I was like ??????? and I looked at my mirror twin, who clearly was thinking the same thing. We only glanced at each other for like two seconds, and when we looked back to the table she was gone. Completely gone, not just running for the door or outside like she'd gone through the door, but like she was invisible or something, like she'd never been there._
> 
> _We looked all around but the store was nearly deserted and we could see the sidewalks through the windows and she wasn't there. We asked the girl if she saw her but she was busy cleaning up the mess and didn't. I asked other Shawn if he knew why she was all “I can't help you” like maybe she meant that séance she said she was going to do a couple of days ago hadn't worked, but then why wouldn't she just say that instead of dissolving into nothingness like George Michael's popularity. Then other Shawn said he saw she had a scar on her neck, and I remembered how Lady Bela looked when we saw her before and said she didn't have one. Then he said he agreed that she didn't, not THEN. I think she really must be magic especially with the disappearing. Maybe witches are real if the multiverse is also really real. Anyway other Shawn called Carlton to tell him while I got back in line, and when it was my turn NEXT he was all “ok let's go, we need to get back to your place and tell Carlton everything we saw” and I was like “other Shawn don't be Rose Tyler's parallel universe”. Oh my god I wonder if Rose Tyler is in his universe. We have to get her back to the Doctor if we get him home too._
> 
> _Oh also I got the Dark Bismarck. It had just the right amount of Dark._

  
Lassiter rubbed a spot on his forehead between his eyes. “Do I dare ask for the other Spencer's witness account?” His double held it out, with an amused look on his face, while Lassiter braced himself.  


>   
> _At approximately ten o'clock Evil Shawn and I entered Smooth Move and got into line. There were twelve customers around other than us, and most of them picked up their orders and left instead of sitting down. We were looking at the menu and Evil Shawn was trying to decide what he wanted when I saw Lady Bela at a table. I told Evil Shawn we should talk to her, but he wanted to get his smoothie first, but I figured she could leave while we were waiting and we could always get back in line after we talked to her after missing her the other day. I tried to greet her but she didn't acknowledge me, which was way weird, because I'm pretty sure I'm not invisible, not like David Hasselfhoff's musical career at least. Evil Shawn said something to her then, something pseudo-charming like “Alina, my fair lady”, and that was when she looked up and saw both of us and flipped out. What I said to her was “Lady Bela”, so I'm thinking it was him using her first name that got her attention, even though when we saw her she was totally going by Lady Bela according to her palmreading sign and how she introduced herself. Her entire demeanor was different, though—when we met Lady Bela, she was calm and self-possessed and made like she was besties with all kinds of spirits and beings. When we saw the woman today, she was super anxious and even afraid, I think, which is how she was startled enough to spill her drink and break a glass container. She told us she was sorry, and then said “I don't know how you found me”, when we didn't even know she was hiding. Maybe that's why Carlton and Evil Shawn couldn't find her to talk to her yesterday? What is she hiding from? Or who? Us?_
> 
> _I looked at him and he looked at me, just for a couple of seconds, and then she was literally gone. No I mean literally. Not in the store, not outside of the store, we could see out of the windows and all down the street both ways and no Lady Bela. Or Alina Belavol. I told Evil Shawn that I saw she had a scar on her neck like the description of the woman that was in the Mirror Maze shop that the cashier said disappeared. And she had just disappeared from right in front of us, so I think that must have been her. Maybe she was afraid we came to get her for what happened at the mirror store._

  
Lassiter got to the bottom of the page, and he looked up. “You said you got a background on this Belavol woman, and there was something about a boyfriend of hers disappearing?”

The other man nodded. “I wanted you to hear what they saw and noticed today, along with that, and put out a BOLO on her so that she can be found and questioned.” He paused. “Did you read the other side?”

Lassiter flipped the sheet over and saw that Spencer #2 had gone on; he read on, and stared at the page for several moments after he'd reached the end.  


>   
> _Theory: Lady Bela and Alina Belavol are mirror twins. I don't know what happened at the store but I think finding out is the answer to what happened to us. We also should find Lady Bela if we can, if she's not in Alina's world. I told Carlton (“Lassie”) that I thought maybe something had tried to pull them through because she was disappeared and the man could have been pulled partway through and the spell failed for some reason and he got stuck in the mirror and it turned back to glass and cut him up, but now I think she recognized something happening with the mirrors and made herself disappear so it only happened to him. I think she recognized that Evil Shawn and I are the same person and we were trying to find her because she knows about it, which is why she said she can't help us. But I think she can, or she wouldn’t have disappeared from us. I think she's the only one who can. I think we need to find her or we are stuck here forever. And I want to go home._

  
Lassiter shuffled both Spencers' pages in his hands, his mind racing. The other Lassiter held his hand out for them and Lassiter handed them over so that all of the notes and their 'evidence' could be kept together. “I can't just issue a BOLO,” he said after a moment. “I need a reason. Spencer and—and Spencer thinking that she's the same woman but from another world that can magically disappear is not good enough.”

The other man shrugged. “Take Shawn with you to the police station and tell him to have a vision. That's been good enough for Vick to want to question someone before.”

Lassiter snorted. “You _always_ fall back on that.”

“I fall back on Shawn, because his methods help,” the other man said. “The end justifies the means here. I know how he does it, and I know it's legitimate, and I trust him. You need to start. Or don't, I don't care—after my Shawn and I get home, what you do about how you feel about him and how he feels about you here is your own problem. All I care about is getting myself and the man that I love home. Get the BOLO or find some other way to find that woman so that we can find out what she knows.”

“The man that you love,” Lassiter sneered. He knew he was being a dick and simply goading the other man and antagonizing the situation, but he couldn't help it. Every time he heard either of them talk about their relationship, he wanted to punch something. Maybe himself. The real himself, not the doppelganger in the chair. 

The doppelganger in the chair gave him a venomous look. “Yes,” he said. “As we've _quite_ thoroughly established, I love him. How's the love of your life right now, huh? Who do _you_ think it is, Victoria? Is she making you really happy right now?”

“Oh, give me a break,” Lassiter snapped. “The 'love of your life'? What are you, a twelve-year-old girl? And you're not telling me that it's _him_.”

“ _Yes_ , it's him. He's brilliant and ingenious and clever. He's immature sometimes, but he's getting better—even you should be able to see that with the differences between them. He's sweet and he cares so much about the people that he loves that he goes out of his way to secretly do things for them and then he never wants the credit. He did it for you, you know—the first year you knew him, the murder of the astronomer. That was Shawn, not you. You were depressed and he wanted to make you happy and to feel good about yourself because he loves you.” The other Lassiter glared, and Lassiter glared back. “You're a stubborn asshole,” the other man went on. “You would be happy with him, but you won't even try because you'd rather be lonely and miserable than just see how much more there is to him than you could imagine.”

Both men glared at each other. Several things he'd said were trying to take the forefront of his mind but he couldn't grasp just one to bring up first; finally, one thing broke to the top: the way Spencer's eyes had looked when Lassiter had stood at the planetarium and put the final pieces together to make his arrest. Spencer had just looked up at him, happy that he'd done it, that he'd gotten to the answer. The one Spencer had, evidently, already arrived at and led him to... so that he would also be happy. So... Spencer wasn't solely an attention-seeking jackass that had only wanted to show up Lassiter and embarrass him and use the police department for his own glory. He helped. He had helped Lassiter himself after only a few months of knowing him, going through the work and effort of finding the culprit and evidence, without any pay or credit for himself, because...

“I love Shawn more than anything,” the other man said firmly. “I'll never need anything else in my life as long as I have him.”

Lassiter opened his mouth to say something—anything—but he was interrupted. “Wow,” Spencer's voice came from the doorway, soft and half-laughing. “Carlton... I love you too.”

They both turned and saw both Spencers there, the one from another world looking at Lassiter's double with his eyes shining and a dopey, lovey-dovey grin on his face. The Spencer from this world had the opposite expression on: first his face was longing as he looked at the other man, and then, when his eyes cut to Lassiter, his shoulders slumped and his eyes dropped to the ground. Lassiter opened his mouth again, but he could still think of nothing to say. What was there between them but distance? 

“Come here, Shawn,” the other Lassiter said, and Spencer #2 obeyed immediately, going to him and straddling his lap, putting his hands on the sides of his neck and kissing him. 

Lassiter cut his eyes away from them sharply, not wanting to look at them because they were the same but so, so different. His gaze landed on Spencer #1, who was still watching them, and he looked so wistful and wanting that Lassiter felt he should do something. Stop them. Spencer #1 had a point in his witness narrative about the other-worlders rubbing their relationship in their faces. But he couldn't stop them because they had each other, had gotten together in their own world in their own way, and that was fair. He could say something to Spencer, but _what_?

His mind returned _I'm sorry_ almost at once, and before he could think about it for more than two seconds his mouth opened to say it—maybe it was about time that Shawn deserved an apology from him. But then Spencer looked away from the two in the chair again, dropping his gaze to the floor and rubbing the back of his neck, and then he indicated the still-open door he was standing just inside.

“Um, I guess you probably want to go, Lass,” he said.

There was silence for a moment, and then Lassiter stood up. “I guess I should,” he said flatly. He would have stayed if Spencer had offered or asked him to, but perhaps he was finally done asking... finally through trying. It wasn't one hundred percent his fault, after all, that Lassiter had only just, in the last few days, realized that he had been for some time now. 

He made his way to the door, glancing at Spencer as he went by. Spencer kept his eyes on the ground, so Lassiter kept going. _I should have stayed in bed today_ , he thought wearily, remembering what it felt like to open his eyes and have Shawn in his arms for just a moment.


	16. Chapter 16

Gus had a waterbed. 

Shawn lay on his back on it and kicked his foot a little to make it move, and then he closed his eyes and let himself float like driftwood. He'd always liked waterbeds and had always wanted one, but he recognized the potential for catastrophe with how he could be accident-prone and how sometimes he'd get to his bed to go to sleep only to find half of a pie (complete with fork), a crossword puzzle and a pen, a few clothes hangers, and the instruction manual for his microwave-omelet thingy. He would have just about no idea where the majority of these random things had come from, only knowing that he would sometimes go days without sleeping, even if he tried, and things sometimes just... accumulated. Best not to invite that sort of disaster into a 'water balloon you slept on' situation. 

He'd crashed at Gus's before when he was out of town, being careful so that he wouldn't puncture his friend's bed and let him know he'd been there... but the times before had been for less fucked-up reasons. This time, after Lassie had left his apartment, Other-Shawn had finally pulled his face out of Carlton's face and informed Shawn that he would pay him in KitKats if he would leave. _Gimme a break_ , Shawn had wanted to tell him, but instead he'd shrugged.

“I'm not hungry,” he said. “And where am I supposed to go? This is _my_ apartment.”

Other-Shawn stuck out his bottom lip just a little. “I know,” he said. “But it's not like we can leave. If we tried to get a hotel room someone might recognize one or both of us. Please?”

Shawn had wanted to ask if he could just stay, be a part of it. Maybe Carlton would get off on having two Shawns to control. But he had a pretty strong feeling that that wasn't going to happen, so he'd just sighed and gotten his key to Gus's apartment. On the way over, he'd come to a street that, with a right turn, would take him to Lassie's place... but the light was green, and he had only seconds to decide. A year ago, he'd had an impulse to kiss Lassie at the police station when the other man had been in his face and he'd chickened out, afraid of what would happen if Lassie reacted badly to it. He let his yellow belly streak continue and just went to Gus's apartment, and now he was floating on a bag of water that was supposed to be a bed and feeling cold and alone. Just today he'd woken up warm and cozy and happy. Too bad it would never happen again—not with the Lassie from this side of the universe, anyway.

Shawn was just dozing off when that last thought came to him again, and his eyes popped open. He had an idea—one that, if agreed to by the others, would end up with all of them happy. It had to. He stared up at Gus's ceiling and examined it from all angles, finally arriving at the conclusion that it had to be the only thing they could do for all of them. It was the only way. 

In the morning, he ate five of Gus's homemade mini pancakes that were stored in the freezer, and then he hopped back on his bike to get back to his own apartment. He was in a great mood—a _hopeful_ mood—and he also hoped that Other-Shawn was in the mood for more Smooth Move so that they could drive over together and get some. Shawn's idea was going to have to be run by him first, he thought.

When Shawn got to his apartment, he stepped into the living room, expecting to see Other-Shawn and Carlton asleep on the pull-out sofa. Not only were they not there, but the sofa was still in its sitting-stage, and Shawn stared at it for a moment, feeling slightly queasy. Were they in his bed? He crept over to the doorway, which was wide open, and tentatively peeked around the corner—nope, the bed was empty. Shawn frowned, and then he nodded. Shower on—they were in there. He went into his kitchen and set some coffee going, smirking a little as he turned on the water and knew that the shower was about to literally get steamy.

Ten minutes later, Other-Shawn came into the kitchen—having helped himself to Shawn's clean laundry, apparently—looking annoyed, and then he saw Shawn and nodded. “That makes sense—I was afraid my burning love was actually boiling me alive for a minute. But you turned the cold water on, huh?” He made a 'tsk' sound. “Is that all the revenge you have planned? I just need to know when I should schedule it in.”

“It wasn't revenge,” Shawn lied, pointing to the counter. “It's coffee. I could've turned the hot tap on and given your burning love a case of shrinkage, but I didn't.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Other-Shawn flashed him a grin. “I'll remember that later.”

“I bet you will.” Shawn glanced back at the doorway. “Where's, uh, Carlton?”

“He decided to go back to sleep,” Other-Shawn said unconcernedly. “That's okay, right? I kept him up kinda late. Hey, let's go to the mall.”

Shawn had just been about to bring up the donut-smoothie place again, but the mall would work just as well as a place to head to while he brought up his idea. “Sure. Were you craving a pretzel?”

“No. Well—” Other-Shawn stopped to consider that. “Yes, now I am. But mostly Carlton needs some clothes.”

“Are you _quite_ sure that you're not just speaking nonsense right now?”

“Mmm, maybe. But I've tried to get him to spend an entire day naked before and he wouldn't.”

“Dream ruiner.”

“Him or me?”

Shawn shrugged and waved at him instead of saying _both of you_. “Let's go, I guess. I hope you have money, because there are only so many times I can charm the girl at American Eagle into knocking fifty percent off a pair of socks for me.”

“I kind of have money.” Other-Shawn dug in his pocket and held two credit cards and an ATM card with CARLTON J LASSITER stenciled on the front. “Carlton gave me these. He also said we should go before him-from-this-world notices that we're taking his cash but that he's tired of trying to borrow _his_ clothes or just staying mildly fragrant in them because he refuses to pay to have them cleaned.”

Shawn nodded, thinking that Lassie really would be pissed off if he found out Carlton was having them kinda steal his money. “Is he coming with?”

“Nah, I know his sizes.” Other-Shawn leaned forward and picked up the Blueberry's keys from the table. “Come on—if we get there early enough we can go in on the west side and that entire end will smell like Cinnabon.”

Shawn let his mirror-twin drive, wanting him to be in a good mood and slightly distracted. “So, Lassie seemed like he had a good time with you the other night,” he said. “Even if he doesn't want anyone else to know it.”

Other-Shawn shrugged. “Carlton had a good time with you, so what?”

“So nothing. Or... you know, everything.”

Other-Shawn sighed. “You're not getting all bent out of shape about that again, are you? It was probably a bad idea—the only reason we agreed was for you guys, but it seems like it made things worse instead of better.”

“No, no,” Shawn said. “You're doubly wrong. First, I'm not bent. Well, I mean, not anymore than usual. And I don't think it made things worse at all—if anything, I think it showed us the answer.”

“That you two should be together? Duh. I have to approve of that in all realms and worlds.”

“We should,” Shawn agreed. “In whatever way it works. If it's not working one way, then another. It's multifaceted, like a prism. You can tilt it and it still reflects a rainbow, it just might be a slightly different one. But what's that matter, as long as it's still a rainbow and it still works?”

There was silence for a moment, and then Other-Shawn shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I tried to figure out what you're really getting at here, but I got nothing other than something about being with him and being happy you're gay.”

“I'm not gay, I just like guys.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

“Toh-mah-toe.” Shawn knew that one was right, because he always felt fancy and British whenever he pronounced it that way, which was whenever he could.

“Why would someone say _tomahto_ , that's not even a word.”

“Tell that to the Queen of England.”

“I will. The very next time we have crumpets and tea.”

Shawn paused. “What is a crumpet, actually? Is it like a crumpled puppet?”

“I hope not—I kinda doubt they go well with tea. I think it's like a cookie-biscuit?” He shook his head. “Just don't ask for kippers with your tea. Those are fish. Don't ask me how I found that out.” 

Shawn contemplated fish-flavored tea for a moment before remembering his original line of thought. “What I was getting at is... you know, if we can't ever actually figure out a way to get you back to your own world. If you're stuck here forever, you two need a backup plan—something that you can live with that'll keep you happy, maybe something that would end up working out for all of us.”

“Which is... what? We all pile together in a hot tub and let each of our appendages go where the current flows?”

“Not exactly...” Shawn licked his lips and fidgeted. “I just think... well, Lassie doesn't like me, and he does like you. And you like him— he gets along a lot better with you, too, and since you've been with Carlton, you know what he likes and how to be with him and keep him happy. And I really like Carlton... I mean, I like them both, and I can definitely see how they're the same, except that Carlton is a lot more chill, which is _great_. But he seemed to like being with me, too, and I—if we—”

Other-Shawn slowed the car at a red light and took the opportunity to turn and scrutinize him. “Okay, I'm pretty sure I know what you're getting at now,” he said, frowning slightly. “But I'm going to need you spell it out before I overreact.”

“Try underreacting, that works wonders for me.” Shawn put on his version of a Smooth Gus voice. “Gee, Shawn, we're in a pickle now—there's men with guns all around us, and a damsel being held captive, and someone drew a mustache on the world's biggest monument to Papa Smurf, and whatnot.” Then he switched back to his own Smooth Shawn voice. “Duuuuude, it's fine because _we're_ young and fine, and nothing can Smurf that up for us. Just one sec to inhale and then we're Audi 5000.” He shrugged and held out his hands. “And then it's fine.”

“Right.” Other-Shawn rolled his eyes and got the car moving again as the light turned green. “Just, for now, go ahead and elaborate on what the Smurf you're talking about.”

“Switching,” Shawn said.

“Again?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We both like both of them, only Lassie doesn't want anything to do with me, but he likes you a lot.”

“Not a _lot_ , just—just—”

“Just more than me,” Shawn finished for him. “I mean, you'd have to go through the whole 'truth-telling' bit again, but he already knows that you did it once so he's more willing to listen to you, and Carlton already knows everything about _me_ , and—”

“Whoooooa,” Other-Shawn said then and gave him an incredulous look. “You're not just talking about another night, are you? Holy schnike schneakers, you're talking about, like, for _good_.”

“Yeah. _If_ you can't get back to your own world,” Shawn continued quickly. “That's going to be the easiest way for everyone to adapt, buddy. And the only way everyone will end up happy.”

Other-Shawn suddenly pulled the car into a slant parking spot on the street, braking hard and causing a woman walking a tiny dog to yank the dog back on the leash and give them a dirty look. He slammed the gear shift into park and turned halfway in his seat so that he could scowl imposingly with all of his face. “Okay, man, first thing? Stop saying 'if'. It's not 'if' we get back home—it's 'when'. This is fifty shades of cra-zay and it's not going to last. Carlton and I talked about it last night, and we're prepared to do _whatever_ it takes to get back. We're done screwing around and reeling and—and screwing strange-ass other-world versions of ourselves. It's time to get serious and find out how it happened and how to fix it. If it happened one way, it can happen the other. There's an answer; all we have to do is find it, and we _will_.”

Shawn held both of his hands up to placate his double, even though he didn't believe it. “Right. You're on the case, I got it.”

“No, you don't, but you will.” Other-Shawn sighed and gazed out of the window at the sky for a moment. “You know, it's not all that surprising that Carlton from this world is so impatient with you. I forgot I used to be like that, and I don't blame him so much as one snail egg. You're so wrapped up in yourself and your own ideas about things that you can't see what really is.”

“Says my mirror-twin from another world,” Shawn muttered under his breath.

“I will slap you in your face.”

Shawn rolled his eyes, remembering a pinch he'd received the night his double had come through the mirror and into his life. “I already know you're physically real.”

“That wasn't why. Look dude, I'm going to just tell you two things about your little suggestion, okay? Your solution? Number one, it's unnecessary and not just because we _are_ going home. Your Carlton _does_ want you, and maybe he'll get to where he can be okay with it if you can get to where you can be more honest with him. Why do you think it is that he's more comfortable with me? You've said it yourself, and I know you know it. It's just that it's been so long now that you've dug in your heels, and so has he, and even though you're the one with the most to lose, you need to show him that you're willing to lose it.”

“It's not as simple as—” Shawn began, but his know-it-all mirror-twin held up a hand and cut him off.

“Secondly, nah nah nah nah boo boo—that's my Carlton, get your own.”

“An excellent display of how much more mature than me you are,” Shawn said. “Ten points for you. But negative a hundred points for behaving like the solitary cold French fry in the bottom of a box of onion rings.”

“If you're trying to say you don't like surprise fries, I think you're a large predatory cat who doesn't tell the truth.” Other-Shawn turned back around in his seat and put the car back into gear. “If you bring that up to Carlton, I'll guarantee you he'll say the same thing, so just sit on it, okay?”

“What are you, the Fonz?” Shawn scoffed. He guessed that his double was probably right—he did know the man better than Shawn himself did, after all—but he kinda wanted to hear Carlton Lassiter tell him 'nah nah nah nah boo boo' in his deadpan voice.

“Nope, I'm the Shawnz.” There was silence for a moment, and then he glanced over again. “I get why you think that'd be a good idea,” he said. “But it's not, trust me. You need to go after the Carlton that you know, and not just because I won't give up the one I love until after I'm dead, and maybe not even then—I haven't decided yet. A lot of it depends on whether or not we die together.”

“But...” Shawn frowned. It had seemed like a good idea to him, and it still did. He didn't get why Other-Shawn was throwing up a wall so hard—yeah, he'd kinda have to start over with Lassie, but the first part of a good relationship was supposed to be great, wasn't it? And Carlton had seemed to really get into the idea that Shawn wasn't quite molded to his liking in the same way that Other-Shawn was, at least not yet—he'd need a ton of instruction and practice. Lots of practice, for which they could spend long nights together. Lassie was already more patient with Other-Shawn than he’d ever been with Shawn himself, and Carlton definitely had the capacity for patience enough to shape someone like Shawn into, well, someone like Other-Shawn. “It's... it'd be so much easier,” he said finally. “And then we'd _all_ be happy.”

“It's a cheat. Life's not a video game.”

“Quit talking your nonsense again.”

“Nope,” Other-Shawn said cheerfully, turning into the mall parking lot. “I figured that out when I tried to quit without saving the first morning I woke up and I was still here.”

“That was the night you went through a portal to another world, right?”

Other-Shawn shrugged. “Okay, so it's kinda like a video game. But Carlton wouldn't go for it either—he doesn't like cheats and he loves me. It's been real work—sometimes the good, sweaty kind and sometimes the annoying, fighty kind—to get our relationship where it is. You can't have it.” He turned into a parking space, put the gearshift back into park, and turned off the ignition. “Now, do you want me to buy you a cinnamon roll and maybe a cell phone case with a pot leaf on it to switch onto Henry's phone or not?”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Shawn sighed and undid his seat belt. “Where do you want to go for Carlton's clothes?”

“I dunno, Sears? Where do they sell boring clothes?”

Shawn scoffed. “I'm supposed to know? Please, son. Just get whatever looks best on the bedroom floor.”

“That would be _all_ of it.”

It wasn't until after they passed the third place for clothes, pretzels, or cinnamon rolls that Shawn realized that his mirror-twin had a determined look on his face and his sights set in the distance: the Mirror Maze. “I thought you said you saw everything there was to see at the crime scene there,” Shawn said.

Other-Shawn shrugged. “All there was _then_. And I didn't get to talk to the cashier myself.”

“What are the chances the same one is working there right now?”

“Slim but not slight, much like my desirable body.”

Shawn had to admit that he was curious—he hadn't seen the crime scene at all, he'd only had the description of Lassie and Other-Shawn to go by. They went in and Other-Shawn veered immediately to the left, down a short aisle that ended at a fork, where he took another left. Shawn followed him, looking around at their reflections in each mirror and feeling amused—that was a lot of sets of twins, by Jove. He'd always wondered what it would've been like to grow up with a sibling—he loved Gus like a brother, but he hadn't been shaped for the world primarily by Henry—and a twin would have been even better. The sheer magnitude of hijinkery—

Shawn's thought stopped then as he saw Other-Shawn's face in the reflection, serious and contemplative. Mirrors and actual twins were one thing, but this other version of _himself_ was actually kind of creepy. He looked around at the dozens of reflections around them again and started to feel a little claustrophobic. What if each and every one of them was a portal to another world? Were there really infinite Shawns out there, with different lives and slightly different personalities? There had to be, if this one had proven it. He tried to tell himself that it was awesome—somewhere out there was a Shawn Spencer who was a dinosaur hunter or the leader of an intergalatic army of robots. Or, to be more honest, there were probably Shawns who carried the dinosaur hunters' gear or inventoried broken robot parts. And, on the other hand, there might be a Shawn out there who was a serial killer or one that kidnapped and sold babies for the black market. Or parts of babies.

“Hey.”

Shawn jumped as his mirror-twin nudged him. “What?”

Other-Shawn tilted his head a little. “What are you thinking about? You look freaked. Are you worried we might get sucked back through the other way?”

Shawn blinked, and then he inched away from the mirrors into the center of the aisle; he'd completely forgotten the theory Other-Shawn had had after Lassie had brought him here. “I am now!”

“I won't lie to you, buddy, it is kind of a risk being here—like, if we did get sucked through and then Carlton and other-Carlton would have no idea what happened to us.”

“Then why are we here?” Shawn demanded. “I don't trust mirrors any more. I'm not even sure I trust water—it's reflective.”

“I wouldn't trust water anyway,” Other-Shawn said, looking around. “It's sneaky.” He walked over to a mirror and extended a finger toward the surface. Shawn tensed, wanting to yank him away from it, but before he could do more than think about it, Other-Shawn had touched the glass and laid the flat of his palm on it. He even gave it a knock, and then tilted his head in consideration.

“You want to stop getting fingerprints all over?” an annoyed voice said from behind them. Shawn turned to see a man in a maroon polo with the store's logo on the breast standing in the aisle with his hands on his hips.

“Sorry,” Other-Shawn said, removing his hand. “I was testing its resonance. It resides pretty good.”

“Okay,” the employee said. “Just so you know, I have to Windex all of the fingermarks off every one of these before I can go.”

“Even that one?” Shawn pointed up to the mirror on the ceiling.

The employee gave him an exasperated look. “Let's just say I have no reason as of now to ask my manager to make sure.” He glanced between Shawn and Other-Shawn. “Look, I really don't care if you want to buy something or if you're just bored and looking for a cheap alternative to the House of Mirrors at the carnival. Just don't get fingerprints on the glass and don't fall through any of them. Either way, I don't feel like cleaning up.”

“Do many people fall through them?” Other-Shawn asked. 

“One, recently, although that was kind of a freak thing.”

“What happened?” Shawn asked.

“Dunno, it was really weird.” He shrugged. “It was quiet, and then I heard some yelling, a woman saying something like, 'Just leave me alone, I told you not to talk to me, get away from me!' and a man saying something like, 'Just stop it!' and then 'Hey, what the fuck? No!' and then there was a lot of crashing and glass breaking.” He shrugged again. “I called mall security and then came around the corner, and all I saw was some dude halfway through one of the biggest mirrors in the place, with blood and broken glass everywhere. The woman was gone and no one's seen her since.” 

“Freaky deaky,” Other-Shawn agreed. “Well, we're not breaking any mirrors today. Sorry about my fingerprints.” He looked at Shawn. “Let's go, Norris.”

“Sure thing, Hubert,” Shawn shot back. He could have questioned the Mirror Maze employee more, but as his mirror-twin seemed to think they had all they needed, he decided to trust him and exit stage left from the creepy place. Halfway down the mall corridor, he pointed. “Pretzel.”

“Hmm?” Other-Shawn looked back at him. “Oh, sure. We still need to get clothes for Carlton too.”

“So what was the point of going back there?” Shawn asked. “We didn't find out anything new.”

“Not _really_ , but it's interesting.” Other-Shawn held up a hand and ticked off on his fingers. “'I told you not to talk to me', from the woman, probably to the man. So they knew each other and there was some sort of hostility there. 'Hey, what the fuck?' from him—something surprising happened. Then the crashing and breaking, which we know was him, and she's gone. Did she call up something to get him for bothering her?”

Shawn shrugged. “Did she cause it to happen herself? We don't know why she didn't want him around—or, you know, if she really was talking to him. Maybe she saw something in the mirrors—like how you and I saw each other hours before you came through—and she was trying to get it to scram.”

“But, 'I told you not to talk to me'?” Other-Shawn repeated doubtfully. “What, are they communicating through mirrors?”

“Why not? You walked through one, so they're obviously portals.” 

Other-Shawn gazed around at the crowd of people in the food court. “I still want to know how she ditched us at the smoothie shop.”

Shawn started to shrug, and then he did a double-take as something he'd seen not more than five minutes ago at Mirror Maze flashed back across his thoughts. “There were mirrors at Smooth Move!”

Other-Shawn's eyes widened as he searched his memory. “What? Where?”

“On the ceiling. Not all over, like at Mirror Maze, but a few of the tiles in the design.”

Other-Shawn frowned. “She didn't jump up into the ceiling—we would've seen that.”

Shawn shrugged and spread his hands. “She did something—she disappeared right in front of us. Why not that?”

Other-Shawn considered it, and then he shook his head. “I'm not feeling it.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Good Twin, don't be a discouraged hippie.” He paused. “Hey... weren't there also mirrors all over at Lady Bela's house? Dude, maybe she's back there? We haven't tried in a couple of days.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the exit. “Let's go.”

“Without your pretzel? And Carlton's clothes?”

“I'll eat later and he can just be naked,” Shawn said dismissively. “Don't you want to find out how to get home?”

“Yes,” Other-Shawn said and raised his eyebrows a little. “You're really going to help? You were talking earlier like you don't think it's possible and kinda like you wouldn't care if it wasn't.”

“I will help, it's obviously possible if you're here in the first place, and I do care,” Shawn said firmly. “Look, I know that Carlton—that you guys aren't happy here. You don't belong here, even if you do have each other. And, I guess... you're me, so you might as well be happy back where you belong, even if I'm not, here. Lassie will be happy if you guys get back to where you belong and get out of our lives, too.”

Other-Shawn studied him for a moment, and then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let's go back to Lady Bela's shop.”

As they turned away from the shortening line for pretzels and toward the exit, Shawn's stomach grumbled. “And we'll get something to eat on the way,” he added.

“Duh,” Other-Shawn said. “There's no drive-through Suit-In-The-Box, though, so Carlton really might have to be naked later.”

“Duh,” Shawn echoed.


	17. Chapter 17

Lassiter was so preoccupied that he barely paid attention to his drive home. He parked, let himself into the house, and absently flipped through his mail while he weighed his two main options for the night. 

Normally, when he had to think over something long and hard, something that needed careful consideration of details and of plans, he would sit at his table in silence and clean and oil his guns. His hands would perform the maintenance methodically while his mind turned a problem over and over, examining it from all sides. Well, all sides he could see—it had become more and more clear to him over the last few years that sometimes he couldn't see all of the sides. Sometimes he was incapable of even considering some sides. (That had been, on occasion, how Spencer had beaten him and solved a case first. A _dinosaur_ , for crying out loud.) A few hours of the quiet and the repetition, the smell of gun oil and his knowledge of criminal behavior, and he would often have the answer—or at least a good line on how to find it. 

This wasn't a case-problem, though, not in any sense he'd had prior experience with. His other usual procedure when it came to problems—those of the emotional type—was to turn the radio on low, sit in his chair with a bottle and a glass, and stare at the blank expanse of wall as if it were a canvas on which to project memories and desires. He would just think it all though and let it boil itself down, like a reduction in a recipe that would turn out a thick mass of everything left that mattered. It would be heavier but smaller, something he could handle. This didn't seem like a situation for either of those methods—or maybe it was that everything was tangled together and he didn't think turning on the radio and drinking while cleaning his guns and staring off into space was going to yield many solutions. 

The mirrors. The woman. The murder. Shawn. And _Shawn_. 

Lassiter threw one catalog and three envelopes on the table and made an about-face, not passing go but progressing directly to a hot shower, so hot that he breathed in steam and let the spray pour over his shoulders and his back. He stood there for several minutes, realizing how tired he was and wondering if this might be the strangest, most stressful thing that had ever happened to him. There had been prior stresses: his parents fighting, his father leaving, going through the Academy, beginning training as a detective. High profile cases and life-or-death situations were part of the job. Losing Victoria as their problems became more prominent, some part of him knowing, as she packed and moved out, that she would never be back. The divorce had been a bone-deep disappointment, leaving him sad and lonely, but it had been a long time coming and he'd seen it edging closer as the distance between them grew. This was stressful on so many levels, not the least of which was that his understanding of the world and of the procedures of nature, of the universe, had been incorrect or incomplete. How could they ever expect to fully understand what had happened—and how it had happened—when alternate worlds and _magic_ were real? How could they expect that they would ever know enough to reverse it?

And if they _were_ able to reverse it, to send the doubles back to their own world... what would happen after?

Lassiter had been idly soaping his stomach when he came to that thought, his hands slowing as he pictured facing Spencer, just them, alone after the doubles had walked back through the mirrors, or whatever it would take for them to leave. It would probably be awkward between them for awhile, and then Guster would come back from wherever he was and O'Hara would come back from vacation; Lassiter and O'Hara would get another case, Spencer and Guster would show up and stick their noses in, eventually producing the answer and the perp, sometimes in a package deal that the police department paid for with a check to their fake business, which only encouraged them to do it again. Spencer would steal all of the attention, make several smartass remarks, proposition O'Hara... and, when he thought Lassiter wasn't looking or wouldn't remember until years later, Spencer might smile at him when he made a collar and was happy. 

That was all they'd ever done, what evidence did either of them have that it would ever change? Just because it had worked—or was currently working—for their doubles meant nothing. Just because the other Lassiter and Shawn had told both of them that it could be molded into something that worked for them... just because Shawn had finally owned up to the truth, had settled down to be less obnoxious and more in line with the rules, both those of the law and investigative procedure and the rules the other Lassiter had set for him. Under the hot spray of the shower, Lassiter thought of Shawn in his bed, moaning and making soft panting sounds and begging to be given permission to come. “ _Please_ ,” he'd said. “ _You have to tell me I can_.” The way he said _Carlton_ and not _Lassie_ , the way he sat still (and easy and warm on his lap) instead of flouncing around and claiming to have spirit attacks. The way he said what he saw, explained his theories, listened to what Lassiter had to say, and did what he was told. The other Lassiter repeatedly expounding on how much better his own life was with him. 

_Shawn_ , Lassiter thought, and then he let out a slow breath when he felt his cock getting hard. He thought of Shawn smiling and promising to be good, to obey him and make him happy—and actually following through with it—and his hand slowly slid down his stomach, down the length of his cock. He held it for a few seconds, knowing that if he let go and pictured Shawn again, being with him, it would be over fast... but it wouldn't be good. Jacking off in the shower over what wasn't and wouldn't be his would leave him just as alone afterward, and he would feel weak and pathetic instead of strong and in charge of himself and his situation. Just because the situation was far out of his control didn't mean he had to lose himself entirely. 

He let go of his dick and gave the H knob a hard twist, and when the spray turned into icy needles he remained there until his head felt clear. He went directly to bed as soon as he'd toweled off, and after he finally fall asleep, he dreamed of walking in a mirror maze, reflections at every junction of another universe's version of himself and Shawn Spencer. In every mirror-world they were together and happy, and each time he met them, the mirror-couple was surprised that he was alone and they were apart—surprised and glad that they were not the versions of themselves given this fate and this life. 

Lassiter went to work the next day and submerged himself in his current cases, resolving not to stop until he found something. He did more searching on Greg Truner, the man who had almost (perhaps almost _literally_ ) gone through a mirror at the mall, and Alina Belavol, the woman the other Lassiter and Spencer were determined must be located immediately. He didn't find much more on Truner than he'd had already—not, at least, until he went to Lady Bela's website and followed a link to her business's Facebook page. On page five of the “Happy Clients” photo album, he stopped clicking, almost ready to backtrack and look for another avenue to pursue, and then he paused, enlarged a picture, and held the file photo of Truner up beside the photo on his screen . 

The picture in the album was of a thin woman with heavy eye makeup and light scarves; she was sitting at a small table and holding the outstretched hand of an older woman who sat across from her and positively beamed about whatever she was hearing. In the background, a man was caught in the middle of exiting a doorway covered with a beaded curtain, presumably a private back room. Greg Truner was holding a mug and wasn't wearing shoes, both signs of being comfortable and welcome in the place, and just like that Lassiter had his legal and legitimate reasons for questioning Alina Belavol. If he showed her picture to the clerk at the Mirror Maze and he identified her as the Mysterious Disappearing Woman, Lassiter could put out an ABP on her as a murder suspect, and every cop in the city would be looking for her. He printed the picture from Facebook and an enlargement of Lady Bela's face, gave Chief Vick an update, and headed for the Mirror Maze. 

He had little luck, finding that Luke Perkins wasn't scheduled to work today and getting enough attitude from the girl behind the counter that he pulled out his badge and waved it under her nose when she demanded to know why he wanted to talk to Perkins. He nearly ordered her to get the manager so that he could talk to someone with more authority and a less irritating personality, and then he realized that _Assistant Manager_ was etched in tiny letters under her name on her tag. He briefly considered threatening her with an obstruction of justice charge if she didn't cool it and look up Perkins' address for him, but he already had it in his file from Perkins' witness statement, and he didn't feel like forcing her to comply with his request—and, thus, the request of the Santa Barbara Police Department—just to make a point. If not for the urgency of the situation, he might have—especially since O'Hara wasn't with him, as she would never have gone along with it if she was—but the sooner he could find the witness and officially get an ID on the woman that had been with the victim and then 'disappeared', the sooner he could have everyone looking for her. And the sooner, hopefully, he and Spencer and their doubles could get some answers. 

He had just gotten back into his car when his phone rang; he tossed his folder and photographs on the passenger seat and rummaged for it, checking the display and pausing when he saw Spencer, S. If he—they—wanted him to come over and talk about it some more, to just sit around and speculate, they were going to be out of luck. He was doing real detective work while his double was investigating another fraud with a kittycat fetish and Spencer was investigating new junk food delivery methods. “What?” he said into the phone.

There was a slight pause, and then, “Uh... Carlton. We've been outside Lady Bela's palmistry shop for a few hours, and either she's been there the whole time or she got in somehow, because we're pretty sure we just saw something through the windows. We're going to confront her and make her tell us everything she knows about what happened.”

Lassiter frowned. “Spencer?” Not Shawn—not Spencer #2, anyway. He was almost positive of that: even though the Spencer on the phone had actually used his name, there was hesitation, like he wasn't used to saying it. Shawn—Spencer #2—used his name like he said it every day. Every night.

Another short pause. “Yeah? Do you want us to wait for you?” There were voices on the other end, and then he came back. “Carlton says that we should wait for you—that if all four of us surround her she won't be able to get away again.”

“Or, if she tries to get into another mirror, maybe we can follow her if it's still active,” Lassiter heard Shawn say. 

“I'll be right there,” Lassiter said. “Do not approach her or her building until I arrive. Address?”

“Twenty-one eighteen Vallejo Street,” Spencer said. “I'll stay right here and wait for you... okay?”

“Fine,” Lassiter said shortly, and hung up. He set his phone down on top of the folder in the passenger seat, stuck his key into the ignition, and then looked back at the phone. Carlton and okay? “Okay... Shawn,” he muttered. He gave the key a twist until the car started, and then he put it into drive. 

He recognized Guster's blue car half a block from the street number he'd been given and pulled up behind it, confused for a second and then irritated when he saw that only one person was inside the car, sitting behind the wheel. He got out and came up on the passenger side so that he wouldn't be conspicuously standing in the street, and he bent down to see Spencer #1 looking back at him. “Where are the others?” he demanded. 

Spencer gestured to the building. “Around the back—they wanted to make sure she wouldn't try to bolt that way when we go in the front. We synthesized our watches so we could all go when you said.”

Lassiter just looked at him for a moment, and Spencer looked back earnestly. “Synchronized,” Lassiter corrected gently. 

“Oh.”

“You didn't 'hear it both ways'?” Lassiter asked after a few seconds of silence.

Spencer shrugged. “If that's what you say it is, I believe you.” One corner of his mouth turned up a little. “I sometimes get things mixed up, I know... but you always know which way is up, right?”

“I used to think so.” Lassiter stood up and checked his watch. “Come on.” He glanced at Spencer's arms as he got out of the car and felt an old exasperation. “You're not even wearing a watch.”

“No,” Spencer agreed and held up his green phone with the Psych logo. “But this has a clock on it. Incidentally, so does the burner carried by my mirror-twin and yours.” He came up on the sidewalk and held the phone out, a number keyed into the display. “That's it. You make the call and we all go at once.”

Lassiter walked to the storefront of the next building, keeping the wall to his back and scanning both sides of the street for more civilians. It was fairly quiet, but there was a couple walking a dog about a block away and two cars coming from the south. What they were doing wasn't exactly illegal—not yet—but it was definitely unauthorized. He put his sunglasses into the inside pocket of his jacket, pressed the green phone button on Spencer's phone, and held it to his ear.

“Yeah?” his own clipped voice came back.

“Are you in position?”

“Nearly.” The other Lassiter's voice was a bit muffled as he then asked, “Do you have it unlocked?” A few seconds pause, and then, “Her back door was locked, but there's no alarm system. Shawn has it open now. Say when.”

Lassiter frowned, wanting to say something about his double making Shawn pick locks so that they could do a little daytime B&E—no big deal, evidently—but then he realized that both his doppelganger and Spencer's were desperate to get back to where they belonged. To them, this was nothing but a strange version of their world, where he and Spencer #1 only reminded them of how sub par their lives would be if they weren't together. They deserved to get back home, if they could, and by any means necessary. 

“Hold your position.” Lassiter ended the call and glanced to his side, where Spencer was standing close to him. “Spencer,” he said. “Go check if her front door is locked. Try to see anything you can through the windows.”

Spencer nodded, dodged around him, and—impressively like a cop—crouched down below the line of sight through the front windows and carefully tried the door. He stood up between the door and one of the windows, with his back to the wall, and slowly turned so that he was looking around the edge. After a couple of seconds, he crouched back down and came back. “It's locked,” he reported. “There's a _Closed_ sign in the window on the door, too, even though she gave us a card with her regular hours the first time we saw her, and she should be open right now. The lights are off inside, and I didn't see anyone in the business area, where she has her tables and counters and shelves with magic ghost toothpaste, but there's a faint light coming from behind a beaded curtain that I think leads to her back office room.”

Lassiter raised his eyebrows. “Ghost toothpaste?”

Spencer nodded seriously. “For those pearly whites.”

“Uh huh.” He glanced up the street again and decided that they couldn't be seen breaking into her premises right out in the middle of day where anyone could see them and call it in. He honestly didn't know what he would do if he was in the middle of an interrogation of the woman and McNab came along to arrest him and Spencer—and their _mirror twins_. As if that could ever be explained. 

He decided that three of them should go in the back, which wasn't visible from the street and was already unlocked, and one should stay here, either to prevent her escape or to be let in by the others. He considered his options: send Spencer back—right to the other Lassiter, to be under _his_ command—and wait here himself, or go back himself, so that both versions of him would be on point, and trust Spencer to not let her escape. The problem was that he'd seen Spencer when the heat came on in cases. He could be a klutz. He made impulsive decisions, few of them good. He jumped at loud noises. Lassiter had also known him to stare down a criminal with a gun pointed directly at him, to talk a suspect into confessing everything, and to lead the charge into danger—mostly with Guster at his side, demanding that they call the police every step of the way while Spencer refused to stop until he had the answers. Still. This could _be_ the answer, and if she escaped again, knowing for certain that they were after her, they might never find her again.

“Spencer, go around the back,” he said. “You three go in—I'm going to stay out here and make sure she doesn't escape.”

“I'll wait with you,” Spencer said at once. 

It was tempting, and Lassiter hesitated before shaking his head. “No, I want the three of you in there to locate and subdue her; then two can watch while one lets me in. Then we're all going to find out what the hell is really going on.” Spencer didn't move, he only looked at him, and Lassiter gestured to the side of the building. “Go.”

“Lass—um, I mean—”

“Go, Shawn.” Lassiter said again, looking directly at him with his voice low and firm. “I'm trusting you to follow orders and do what I—what he tells you in order to keep this operation five-by. Can you do that?”

Spencer frowned and pressed his lips together, and Lassiter was sure he was going to continue arguing, both dragging this out and proving that if he was ever going to be ready to start to evolve into the person that the other version of himself was, he wasn't ready yet. But then he surprised Lassiter by nodding. “Okay.” He stuck his thumbs in his jeans pockets and turned, disappearing around the corner of the building. Then there was silence.

Lassiter inched closer to the door, waiting for either a person to come barreling out or for the lock to disengage. He knew he had to look suspicious to anyone that was watching, and so he tried to appear a little more nonchalant, not like a police detective on a case. He leaned against the wall and held up Spencer's phone as if it was his and he was texting someone. It had gone to a lock screen, but the text on the display instructed him only to swipe to continue. He didn't, not wanting to know what was behind the ThunderCats screen saver. 

Several long minutes went by. Then he heard a sound on the other side of the door and he tensed, putting one foot in front so that he would be ready to grab their fleeing suspect and step backwards in through the door with her. The doorknob rattled slightly, and then the door opened—but slowly and just a little, not thrown open in haste. One hazel eye peeked out at him and he relaxed. 

“We got her,” Spencer said. “Well, they do—Carlton and Other-Shawn are with her in her hideout.” He paused. “She's pretty upset.”

“I bet she is,” Lassiter said grimly as he stepped inside and closed the door, re-locking it. “Being confronted by their victims makes any perp nervous.”

“No, Lassie!” Spencer grabbed him by the arm to stop him plunging ahead, and Lassiter gave him an exasperated look. Who had the most experience questioning and arresting criminals here? He almost shook off the hand holding onto him and went in anyway, but then Spencer's hand loosened, slipping down from his forearm to his hand. Lassiter's fingers sprang open as Spencer tried to entwine their fingers, and then he paused as he felt Spencer's other hand stroking his arm as he looked up at him. “Carlton,” Spencer said solemnly. “Listen to me. Trust me. She didn't _do_ this to us. To them.”

“What do you mean?” Lassiter demanded. “How do you know? Then who did?”

“I know because I see it.”

Lassiter gave him a venomous look. “In a _vision_?” he snapped.

“No. With my eyes.” Spencer tugged on his hand gently. “Come on. I don't know all of what happened yet, but she promised to tell us everything she knows.”

“Fine,” Lassiter said through clenched teeth. He pulled his hand out of Spencer's and headed for the beaded curtain, where he saw light and could hear soft voices. 

He brushed aside the ridiculous hanging door and stood on the other side of it with his hands on his hips, surveying the scene. A thin, dark-haired woman was sitting on a chair with her arms wrapped protectively around her middle, her shoulders slumped and her neck bent so that her hair fell into her face. Shawn was kneeling down next to her, not touching her but speaking in a murmur. Lassiter glanced around and saw his double standing a few feet away in the exact same stance he was in. They met eyes and both shifted, his double crossing his arms across his chest while Lassiter himself stepped closer to the woman. 

“All right,” he said loudly and noted how she and Shawn both jumped a little. Shawn looked up at him reproachfully, and the other Lassiter cleared his throat pointedly. Lassiter ignored them both and focused on the woman. “Alina Belavol?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Otherwise known as Lady Bela, a fortune-teller and purported user of magic spells?” This was an accusation he never thought he'd be making, and it took some effort for it to come out of his mouth without a scoff.

“No,” she said, and when she looked up at him, he saw dark circles under her eyes and tears on her face. “I've never presumed to use what I know and what I can do to defraud others for my own personal gain. The other—” She stopped and looked around the office slowly as she wiped at her cheeks. “I've only spoken to her once, but I've never met her. I believe her shop is harmless, only meant as entertainment and a livelihood.”

“Does she know it's real?” Shawn asked.

“Yes—that was how she recognized me when we spoke on the phone and why she believed me about Greg.”

“Greg Truner, the man you murdered in the Mirror Maze,” Lassiter pressed.

“It was an accident,” she said, shrinking back in the chair and her eyes filling up with tears again. “Please believe me: nothing that's happened since I tried to get away was intentional. I never meant to kill him and I never meant for you two to be brought along when I crossed over.”

Spencer came closer and knelt down on the other side of her, an almost-mirror image of Shawn. “How did it happen, Alina?” 

She looked at him, and then she looked at Shawn, who raised his eyebrows but didn't reiterate the question. She took a steadying breath and set her gaze on her knees. “The spell isn't exact,” she said, her voice still small but not as shaky as she explained what she knew instead of defended her actions. “There's a radius of power that builds. It builds for hours until the same facets of a soul face one another and the reflections are infinite. The barrier between worlds disappears and—and when one steps through, the force can be so strong that the world with more than one identical soul will also pull through any others with identical souls who have been marked.”

“Marked how?” the other Lassiter asked.

She didn't look up at him. “The first part of the spell turns mirrors into windows. It will only work if both counterparts look upon each other when the words are spoken.”

Shawn #1 looked at Shawn #2. “When we saw each other hours before you came through.” His head tilted toward both Lassiters. “And they saw each other.”

“We were marked, then, because we happened to all be looking in mirrors at the same time and we were within the radius of your spell?” Shawn #2 asked. 

The woman nodded. “Yes.”

“You knew, didn't you?” the other Lassiter demanded. “There was a way to tell you'd be bringing more than yourself along if you went through with it, and you went anyway.”

Lassiter realized that he must be right. “You knew the second they came up on you in that restaurant who they were. And instead of telling them what happened then, and explaining yourself, you ran.” He paused, remembering the statements both Shawns had written. “You disappeared. How?”

“I know more kinds of magic than one.” 

She still wasn't looking up, and it was starting to piss him off. “Okay, then bring out your spell recipe book and explain how to get them back where they belong. They didn't ask to come here when you popped in for your little vacation, or whatever it was, and you're going to send them back right now or I'm going to arrest you for the murder of Greg Truner.” She'd claimed that had been an accident, like Lassiter and Spencer's doubles crossing over when she'd come through, but that didn't excuse a man's death, nor did it excuse what all four of them had been through in the last few days due to her carelessness. 

“I can't,” she said, her voice wavering again now.

“What are you talking about?” the other Lassiter snapped.

“She said she couldn't help us,” Spencer said softly. “When we saw her before.”

“Why not?” Shawn asked, looking a little panicky. “Alina—please. I promise nothing will happen to you, but Carlton and I don't belong here and we just want to go home. _Please_.”

She looked up at him now, and they could all see that she was crying again. “I'm so sorry, Shawn. I—I was only trying to get safe. After I crossed over, I broke the mirror I'd come through so that I would never return. Yours are broken as well, aren't they? The only ones who can see that they're broken are the ones affected by the crossing, because it's not just a mirror, it's a barrier between our worlds.”

Shawn's eyes were huge, his lips trembling. “So—so what does that mean?”

“The way back through has been destroyed,” Alina said. “You can't go home.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a scene in which a character who recently escaped an abusive relationship misinterprets another character’s words and actions as threats, based on experiences from the abusive relationship.

Shawn sat back on the floor of the tiny office while Lady Bela's mirror twin sniffled and wiped her eyes. He glanced at Lassie, but he was just looking at her like she was a difficult suspect he was trying to question in one of the interview rooms at the police department, his eyes hard and his lips pressed together tightly. Shawn looked at Carlton, but his focus was on Other-Shawn, who was staring at Alina Belavol with his eyes wide and his mouth open. His face was pale, and he seemed to be trying to inhale but couldn't.

“No,” he managed to say, but his voice was squeezed, and it sounded more like a hurt squeak. 

Carlton moved away from the wall then, almost knocking Lassie out of his way as he went over to Other-Shawn and crouched down next to him. He took Other-Shawn's chin in his hand and then turned his face so that he was looking up at him instead of at her. “It's going to be all right,” he said in a low voice. “Shawn. It's okay. I'm here, and I've got you. Now breathe.” Other-Shawn closed his eyes and turned his face so that Carlton's hand was cupping his cheek, and he took in a shaky breath while Carlton put an arm around his shoulders.

“That can't just be the end of it,” Lassie said, irritated. “ _Magic_ and _other-worlds_ and mirrors as goddamn portals? Spells to make people invisible and spells so strong as to pull in unwilling participants, yet there's only _one_ answer to get these two back where they're supposed to be, and you're claiming that that one way is broken and it's impossible? Bullshit.”

“I second that,” Shawn said at once. “I third it and fourth it, and then I might need a fifth of something. Every other version of me across the infinite worlds agrees. Magic isn't static—there has to be another way.”

“When a spell is used to go one way, one must reverse _that_ spell to go back,” Alina said. “I'm really very sorry, but this one cannot be reversed.”

Shawn stared at the opposite wall; something was bugging him, but he couldn't yet put his finger on it. “How, exactly, could it be reversed even if the mirrors weren't broken?” he asked slowly. “If my Good Twin here and I had to be looking at each other through mirrors from different worlds for him to come through to mine, how would we be able to do the same thing—looking at each other through mirrors from different worlds—for him to go back? We're both _here_.”

“I—it's—it's not the _exact_ same reversal,” Alina said, blinking quickly.

“I want to know why others could see that the mirrors at the Mirror Maze were broken,” Lassie broke in, frowning at her.

She turned to look at him and Shawn saw that the tightness in her shoulders relaxed slightly, that her breath seemed to come easier. She was relieved—relieved that the subject had been changed? Even though they were now on the dead man that she knew, that she had admitted to killing? “Those mirrors _were_ broken,” she said, and she sniffled again. “And they were just mirrors—they hadn't been transformed into barriers. When Greg from this world found me... I just wanted him to leave, to not try to force me to go with him, or to—to hurt me. I was only trying to push him away... but I was frightened and I pushed too hard. It was an accident.”

“What was your connection to him?” Carlton asked, one of his hands now absently stroking the back of Other-Shawn's head. 

“In my world... he was my boyfriend,” she said quietly. “It was not a good relationship.”

“You crossed over here to get away from him,” Shawn said. 

She looked at him and nodded. “I was hoping that my counterpart here was not involved with him, even that they had never met. When he came up to me in the mall, I knew that my hopes were dashed. He began pleading for me to rethink breaking up with him, saying that he had changed and that I didn't know how much he loved me. Her, I suppose—the part of me that lives here.”

“Where is she now?”

“She went to her parents. She—she's left the country.” There was a long pause during which Alina glanced at each of the men surrounding her and clenching her hands together. “She'd broken up with her version of Greg, but she didn't trust him. She didn't think he would really leave her alone.”

“Not after you called her and told her that he was abusive to you?” Shawn asked.

“I had to warn her!” Alina pleaded, and she tugged at the scarf she was wearing to show them the scar on her neck. “ _This_ is how much he loved me! Don't you see? I had to leave a world where he knew me or I would never be safe. I was hoping that this world would be different, but it wasn't. I'm really, truly sorry that you were swept out of your world when I left it. But I knew at once that as soon as I had escaped him there that I would _never_ go back.”

“Alina?” Other-Shawn looked up from where his gaze had been focused on the floor. “How did you manage to shove a man twice your size away from you so hard that his body went through a mirror with a particle-board back and seventeen other mirrors were also broken?”

There was silence for a few seconds. “That's a damn good question,” Lassie said flatly. 

“You didn't shove him with your hands, did you?” Carlton demanded. “You used _magic_? That's why he started yelling and sounding afraid, which the cashier heard. That's why the security tapes were all FUBAR. Magic causes interference.” He paused to give her a filthy look. “ _Severe_ interference.”

Shawn had been looking around the office, something still bothering him. “Why would you come back here?” he asked then. “You said you never even met Lady Bela, yet you found her shop. You didn't want us to find you, but we found you right here. Why?” He stood up and walked over to a small rolltop desk against one wall, his eyes sweeping the surface.

“I—I didn't have anywhere else to go,” Alina said. Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn saw her reflection on the glass of a framed photograph; as he moved closer to the desk, she seemed to tense further.

“You're lying,” Other-Shawn spoke up. “Tell us the truth and we'll help you.”

“How do you know she's lying?” Lassie snapped.

“Why is she lying?” Carlton asked.

Shawn saw his double get to his feet in the reflection of the glass on the picture. “Where is it?” Other-Shawn asked loudly.

“Where's what?” Alina whispered. 

Shawn couldn't see her now due to his mirror-twin blocking her, and the second that he realized that this meant she couldn't see _him_ , he knew that Other-Shawn had been talking to him, not to her. His eyes stopped sweeping and focused on a compartment of the desk that wasn't entirely closed, and he reached for it at once. He heard movement behind him but ignored it, sticking a hand blindly into the drawer and grabbing the hard, flat thing inside: a book.

“No!” Other-Shawn shouted, and Shawn whirled around, holding the book behind his back. Lassie and Carlton both had their guns drawn and pointed right at Alina, who was then blocked by Other-Shawn as he faced them with his arms held out. As one, Carlton and Lassie raised their guns so that the barrels pointed at the ceiling instead of at Other-Shawn. Other-Shawn looked past them and raised his eyebrows at Shawn, and Shawn nodded at him quickly. “One-two-three red light,” Other-Shawn said, looking between his boyfriend and his boyfriend's counterpart. 

“Move,” Carlton ordered him.

“Nope,” Other-Shawn said, but Shawn noticed how his eyes flicked away from him. “Stand down.”

“Negative,” Carlton said tightly.

“Shawn,” Lassie said. “She's dangerous. You don't know what she's going to do.”

“Yes, I do,” Other-Shawn said at once.

“Anyone that _conjures_ a fucking green ball of light in her goddamn hand is unpredictable,” Carlton snapped. “Get away from her now. I'm not going to tell you again.”

“Okay,” Other-Shawn said, but he made no move to leave his current spot. “Alina?” he said softly. “No one's going to hurt you, okay? But if you don't tell us the truth, my evil twin is going to take the money and run.” His gaze cut to Shawn again, and Shawn carefully slipped the book inside the waistband at the back of his jeans, dropping his t-shirt over the top of it; he then clasped his hands over it and assumed an innocent face when Lassie glanced back at him.

“Spencer, what do you have?” Lassie asked.

“Charming wit, great hair, and naturally even teeth,” Shawn said. “I also have seventeen dollars, a bottle of vodka, and half a box of condoms, if that sounds like a great weekend.”

“Half a box,” Other-Shawn scoffed.

“It was an economy-sized box.”

“Shawn,” Carlton said, his voice low. “Are you going to make me come over there and get you?”

“That's really not necessary,” Other-Shawn said, but he still made no move to step away. 

Carlton looked at Lassie over his shoulder, and Shawn could see that his eyes were hard and his lips pressed together so tightly that they were nearly non-existent. “Cover me,” he said. Lassie gave him a short, considering look, and then he lowered his gun again while Carlton shoved his gun into his holster and began to slowly walk toward Other-Shawn and Alina. 

Other-Shawn saw him at once and stepped backward, one hand reaching behind him to guide Alina, and Shawn saw her grab onto his hand and squeeze it. “Carlton, you're scaring her,” Shawn informed him.

Carlton stopped and looked back at him incredulously. “ _I'm_ scaring _her_ ,” he repeated.

“She was abused and you sound threatening,” Shawn explained, willing himself not to wilt under those furious blue eyes.

Carlton froze for a few seconds, and then his head whipped around to Other-Shawn, who had one hand up in front of him, silently signaling, 'Halt'. Lassie frowned and glanced back at Shawn, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and then he returned his attention back to the others, although he had raised the barrel of his gun so that it was pointed toward the ceiling again. 

“I'm not threatening you, Shawn,” Carlton said softly.

“I know,” Other-Shawn said. “I know what you're doing and I know why. I'm not afraid of you—I trust you. You need to trust me.”

“She is the one that I do not trust,” Carlton said, speaking slowly and carefully. 

“I know,” he said again. “But she's too afraid to trust us, and you're making it worse. I think you might be reminding her of her scary ex-boyfriend right now.”

“What makes you think that?” Lassie asked.

“Because she's trembling and squeezing my hand so hard that it hurts,” Other-Shawn said evenly. “When you said you were going to come get me, she started crying again and held onto me. She doesn't want you to _get_ me, whatever that might have entailed for her.”

Lassie looked at Carlton. “A frightened animal in a trap becomes desperate,” he said.

“I don't give a shit,” Carlton said back. “I am not standing down until she lets him go.”

“It's not a hostage situation,” Shawn said. 

“You're damn right it's not,” Carlton snapped. “Because I'm not negotiating for him. She releases him now or I retrieve him. It's that simple.”

“She's not keeping him, she's hiding and she thinks he's protecting her,” Shawn said, watching his double, who was still carefully shielding Alina behind him with his body so that Carlton and Lassie both couldn't see her. He looked at Lassie. “My Good Twin has so much to lose right now, but look at him: he's calm and sure. And I have the money.” He glanced back at Other-Shawn, who grinned at him. “She was using defensive magic just now, not offensive.” Now he looked at Carlton, so afraid that their suspect, with her unknown powers, was going to hurt his boyfriend that he wasn't considering any other option at the moment than to get Other-Shawn to safety. Shawn got an idea. He began walking toward his double, moving slowly so that Lassie and Carlton both could see what he was doing. “Hey, Good Twin,” he said, looking right into his own eyes, which were bright as they scanned his face. “Trade me,” he said mildly. “I put the money back.”

Other-Shawn spun around so that he was facing Alina, and he whispered something to her as Shawn came up next to him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Carlton and Lassie said together, while Shawn held his hands out and Other-Shawn put Alina's hands in them. Shawn stepped closer to her, blocking her from the others, and as Other-Shawn moved behind him, he felt him lift his shirt a little, grab the book, and retreat. 

Shawn smiled as he heard Carlton reprimanding Other-Shawn. “Don't ever do something like that again!” he was saying, and Shawn turned in time to see Other-Shawn handing the book to Lassie as Carlton closed his hand around his boyfriend's forearm and pulled him close enough to crush into a hug. 

“I'll do it eight times,” Other-Shawn said, his voice slightly muffled.

“What the hell is this?” Lassie asked, frowning as he opened the book and flipped a few pages.

Other-Shawn turned a little to look at him, and then he tried to break out of Carlton's grip, couldn't quite do it, and settled for pulling him along by the wrist. “You don't know? Here.”

Shawn turned back so that Alina couldn't see what he was holding. “They _can_ go back, can't they?” he said softly. “It's just going to make you go with them. You said you'd never go back, not that you couldn't.”

“I can't,” she whispered. “Shawn... if I go back, I'll kill him. It's the only way for him to stop coming after me, and I—I don't want to do that again. He looked at me as he lay in the glass and died.”

“My mirror-twin will help you,” he told her. “He promises that he will, and you can trust him.” He paused. “You can trust Carlton too—he was just freaking out because he loves Other-Shawn and he was afraid your magic was going to do something to him.”

“Spencer, what are you doing?” Lassie said suddenly, his voice loud and fast. 

“I wasn't going to hurt him,” Alina said, looking up at Shawn. “I was going to hurt you.”

He blinked. “I, uh... wish you wouldn't? C'mon. Don't deny this world my great hair. Don't leave my best friend with no fashion sense alone, or he'll think he grew one.”

“I won't let you send me back, Shawn. I'm sorry.” She bit her lip. “Just give it to me and leave. Please. Your others... they will adjust.”

“No, they won't.” Shawn's eyes flicked over her shoulder as he saw movement, and then he saw several things at once.

There was a large mirror on the wall behind Alina—in his focus on her, he hadn't seen it until this moment. In the mirror's reflection, he saw that Lassie was moving towards them fast, and that Other-Shawn was bending his head down to carefully read something on a page of the spell book, his lips starting to move. Shawn felt Alina's hands growing hot, but when he tried to pull back, she gripped his fingers so tightly he thought they might break. He heard Other-Shawn hesitantly starting to chant something—something that sounded like a string of consonants or Welsh—and when he looked at the mirror to see if Lassie was close, he saw that it was no longer a mirror. There was a rushing sound of wind, two hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and Alina's eyes went wide as Shawn gave her a push just as Lassie yanked him away. She stumbled backward, her legs hitting the wall as her back went through the glass, and she toppled through.

Shawn whirled around, his mind taking a picture of everything he saw. Other-Shawn was still reading from the book, his gaze intent and focused. Carlton was holding onto his arm tightly with one hand and holding his gun in the other, although it was pointed at the ceiling again and his finger wasn't on the trigger, and he was looking rapidly around the room at the white tornado that surrounded them all. Lassie glanced at it and then he pulled Shawn closer to him, away from the mirror.

“Stop reading the spell!” he shouted. “She's gone!”

“No!” Shawn said immediately. “Keep going and you can get through too!” He tried to run to his double, but Lassie held on to his arms. Shawn looked up into his face, ready to yell to be let go, but he stopped for several seconds—seconds that felt like years—as he saw the fear in Lassie's eyes as Lassie held onto him tighter. Lassie didn't want to lose him. 

_Ain't I a stinker_?, Shawn thought, and he caught them up on so much lost time by raising up a little on his toes, pulling Lassie closer to him by giving a good yank on his arms, and kissing him. Lassie didn't punch him and he didn't jerk away, both things Shawn had been so certain would happen; instead, he released his grip on Shawn's arms, raising one hand to cup his jaw and the other to cradle the back of his head as he plunged his tongue into Shawn's mouth. _This is not all, folks!_ Shawn thought, and although it was on the top five of the hardest things he'd ever done, he ducked out of the embrace, of the kiss he'd wanted for so long, and ran to his double. 

“Where are you?” he panted.

Other-Shawn continued reading aloud as he jabbed a finger to the line he was on, starting to underline the words as he read them. Shawn's eyes flashed down the rest of the line as he started reading with him, glancing ahead so that he could keep going without a break in the chant. Other-Shawn thrust the book in his hands, and out of his peripheral vision, Shawn saw him grab Carlton's hand and yank him toward the mirror so hard that Carlton lost his footing and stumbled.

“Jesus Christ, Shawn! We don't know where that comes out!” he protested. “It could be anywhere!”

“It could!” Other-Shawn agreed, still pulling. “It could also be home! All I know is that it's not here, and we're going together! Keep going, Not-So-Evil Twin!”

Shawn nodded, reading faster as he returned to the top of the italicized paragraph under the Creating Doorways From Barriers spell Other-Shawn had found. The wind from the tornado around them knocked over knick-knacks on a few decorative shelves on Lady Bela's walls and ruffled papers. Other-Shawn shrieked, and Shawn glanced up for just a second, holding the book up so that he could read and see at the same time, and he almost faltered when he saw Alina standing at the mirror/doorway, only visible from her hips upward as she leaned out and grabbed for Other-Shawn, trying to hoist herself back. Carlton saw her and narrowed his eyes, his hands flying to Other-Shawn's upper arms and bracing his feet. Just as he was about to pull back, Lassie rushed over behind him and gave him a hard shove. Carlton lost his footing again, falling forward into Other-Shawn, who fell backward against Alina and—just before he, too, topped through the mirror, he pulled Carlton's handcuffs from his belt. Carlton hadn't gone through yet, but the second Other-Shawn disappeared, he grabbed the mirror's frame by its sides and threw himself in without a look back. Lassie took several steps away, until he was standing near Shawn, and while he didn't take his eyes off the not-a-mirror on the wall, one of his hands gently rested on Shawn's arm.

“They're through,” he said, having to raise his voice over the wind. “You can stop.”

_What if it wasn't their home?_

Shawn bolted for the mirror, his eyes flying to the end of the chant so that he could keep going without having to read from the text. It was still a window, and as he stood at the edge of his own world and looked through, he saw that Other-Shawn had cuffed Alina to himself and that Carlton had wrapped his arms around him. Other-Shawn saw Shawn, saw what he was holding up, and he lunged for it. Lassie's arms went around Shawn's middle and pulled, and as he lost his air and wasn't able to continue reading the spell, he threw the book as hard as he could. Other-Shawn reached for it, and then Shawn's head snapped back and he saw plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling as he fell backward on top of Lassie.

“Son of a bitch,” Lassie wheezed.

Shawn jumped to his feet and stared at the mirror for a long moment. At first, he wasn't entirely sure it was a mirror—he'd seen his reflection walking around and talking to him for the last several days, after all. Then he saw his own hairstyle, realized that his reflection was panting just as he was, that the eyes were as wide as his own felt. He started to walk toward it, but then Lassie popped up behind him and reached for him again.

“Don't,” he said tightly.

“It's okay,” Shawn said, watching the lips of his reflection move as he spoke. “It's... it's just a mirror again.”

They both looked at the mirror, neither speaking for a long moment. “I'm not sure I'll ever see one as _just_ a mirror ever again,” Lassie said. He looked at Shawn, who still stared into their reflections. “Why did you go back up to it after they went through? You could have fallen through, too, or one of them could have grabbed you. Anything—you don't even know where they went.”

“I know,” Shawn said. “That's why I had to. If they're not where they're supposed to be, they have the spell to keep trying worlds until they find their own. They'll make sure Alina's boyfriend doesn't find her—that she can get away somewhere without dragging them along.” He dragged his eyes away from the mirror and looked up at Lassie, who ran a hand through his hair distractedly.

“It was still too dangerous,” Lassie muttered, his gaze sweeping over the trashed office, paper and bric-a-brac all over every surface from the strange spell-wind. 

“Carlton...” Shawn said softly, waiting until the other man looked at him. “They deserved any chance they could to get home. I had to do whatever I could to help them... because I don't think I could ever otherwise repay how much they helped us.”

“Helped us,” Lassie repeated dryly. “Those were the strangest days I've ever lived.”

“Yeah. But without them... I'm not sure I'd ever be able to tell you...” Shawn's mouth was suddenly dry and he licked his lips. His heart was almost in his throat and he knew that in a few more seconds it might almost stop, going cold and still and small. On the other hand... He looked up at those clear blue eyes and tried to smile, but he was too afraid. He was leaning out of the plane and getting ready to jump, not knowing at all if the pack on his back was a parachute or an anvil. “I want you,” he said. “I want to be with you.”

Lassie just looked at him. “Me?” he asked evenly.

Shawn nodded. “Yeah. I... love you.”

Lassie's eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly, but for the longest time he only looked at Shawn. “I... I need time, Shawn,” he said slowly.

Shawn nodded again, the rest of his body—his arms, his stomach, his heart—feeling frozen. “Okay. Sure. Should we synchronize? I'll, um... I'll hold my position until you give the all-clear. Okay?”

Lassie looked at him for a long time. Shawn looked up at him and wanted to step closer to him, to touch him, to kiss him again, but that would be a mistake. He could ruin it with his eagerness. Lassie wasn't ready, either to deal with the weirdness they'd been through or to figure out what he felt for Shawn and what—if anything—they might be. After a minute or so, Lassie opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, and Shawn raised his eyebrows, hoping for anything good, anything at all... but then Lassie closed his mouth, pressed his lips together, turned, and walked away. Shawn watched him go, and when he was alone in the office, he looked around to his reflection in the mirror, where he saw himself, alone.


	19. Chapter 19

Lassiter didn't see Shawn again for three weeks.

He spent much of his time after the Mirror Incidents working; when he wasn't working, he filled his hours with the activities that used to entertain or please him: going to the gun range, cleaning his guns, working on his blueprints for the secret armory he would one day have built underneath his house. He also went to the gym, pre-organized his receipts for next year's tax return, cleaned out his garage, and cleaned out his mother's garage; all of it was useless. No matter where he was or what he did, Shawn was in his head. Under his skin. Almost worst of all, Shawn was _not_ under his hands or in his bed. He knew that could have been fixed with one phone call, but although it was difficult, he'd meant it when he'd said that he needed time: time to deal with what had happened as a whole, time to deal with the issue of _him_.

Shawn.

O'Hara came back from her vacation, tanned and chatty and trying to show him pictures. He grunted and hid behind a case file, ignoring her pout as she tucked a stack of snapshots back into a developer's envelope. Vick gave them cases, and they investigated. They tracked down suspects (Lassiter and O'Hara sitting silently in the car, waiting for their guy to come out of the building so that they could pounce, and he didn't realize until O'Hara asked him if he'd hurt himself that he was rubbing his hand slowly and thinking of another's touch); they questioned witnesses; they made arrests. Their work wasn't disturbed or sidetracked or held up in any way by anyone that didn't have business getting involved. It was routine; despite the action that police work commonly required, it was quiet.

It was boring.

After two weeks, Lassiter was surprised that Shawn hadn't come nosing around, either to him for an answer or to Vick for a case. The old Lassiter would have been glad that he could work in peace and get things done his own way, but part of him now did wonder if, just maybe, Shawn could be helping them right now and moving their current cases along so that they could start working on others. Santa Barbara was never going to run out of criminals that needed catching, and he'd always thought that the bigger a police department, the smoother a city would run. (When he became chief, one of his first actions would be to appeal to the city to increase the size of the force by whatever means necessary.) 

Shawn Spencer was never going to be an official part of the department, but his work as a consultant on certain cases had more than once yielded results. He had more than once solved impossible cases in impossible ways. _He_ was impossible... except that he _wasn't_ , not if Lassiter could believe his mirror-self. The way he'd looked at the mirror-Shawn, the way he'd spoken of him—and of their relationship—with pride, the way he had proclaimed his love for him and protection of him over all. The way mirror-Shawn had looked up at him and smiled, the way he had still been _himself_ , but different, easier to be around. The layer of obnoxious attention-seeker present but tamed, his usual steady stream of aimless chatter and asinine comments quieted and his overall demeanor calmed and more serious. Of course, Lassiter hadn't gotten the chance to see mirror-Spencer around mirror-Guster—he had definitely noted the fact that Shawn was far more apt to clown around when his childhood friend was in attendance—but the mirror-Lassiter seemed to have no qualms about him. About any of it. He had been outright adamant that he loved Shawn and was happy with him. That although it had taken work, they were both certain that this was _it_ , that they'd never want anyone else.

After over two weeks without hide or hair of him, Lassiter thought that perhaps, this time, Shawn really was serious. He was giving Lassiter the time he'd said he needed, staying away so that he could think in peace instead of hounding him and trying to push everyone around him into giving him his way. Along with meaning it, that could perhaps be seen as a sign of him finally growing up. Of course, it could also mean that he'd given up and didn't _care_ about what could happen between them... 

Lassiter brooded over this for almost an hour one night, imagining himself finally going to Shawn to offer to talk about _them_ , only to find that he was on a date with someone else. That would just figure, and it would be his own fault for taking so damn long to try to suss out what he really felt and what he really wanted—he couldn't expect Shawn to wait forever. Except it had only been a couple of weeks; if Shawn couldn't even wait that long after claiming to want him and agreeing to give him time, then he wasn't ready for a real relationship and never would be. 

Lassiter didn't know how much more time he thought he'd want, only that he still wasn't completely sure _he_ was ready to dive in, but then Shawn emailed him, asking to meet at once about a case he and Guster had been working, and Lassiter had almost no time to mull it over. He stared at the first line of the message— _Can you please meet me at Charles Emerson Cheese at three today, I have a legit case and evidence for you_ —and then his eyes dropped to the last line and stayed there: _I've been thinking a lot about everything but I still promise you get to go first whenever you're ready._

No time like the present, Lassiter thought. He shot back a one-line reply to acknowledge that he would be there, and then he ditched O'Hara, who was elbow-deep in a mass of paperwork, with a line about his mother having called him. She looked concerned, and he waved her off before she could start, promising that he would catch up to her later. He was halfway to a strip mall on Cedar Ridge Drive, per the address in Shawn's email, before he remembered exactly which sort of establishment _Chuck E. Cheese_ was, and he wondered briefly if it was a trap. That would be at odds with Shawn's reiterated vow to not push him, and he scowled at the red light that was holding him up, momentarily unsure if he should just turn around and go back to the police department. No, he decided, continuing on his way when the light turned green. Shawn had said _legit case_ and _evidence_. He would get the benefit of the doubt this time; if he was lying...

Lassiter pulled into the parking lot and parked next to Guster's little blue car. He looked around and frowned, wondering if the place was usually so deserted in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, and then he headed for the door. Once inside, he spotted Shawn instantly: he was seated at a booth in the far corner, a pointed birthday hat on his head and what looked like a pepperoni pizza in front of him. He was alone, which could have just meant that Guster was in the restroom or trying to secure them the best deal on game tokens, but Lassiter was suddenly sure that Shawn had come here alone. He glanced around, looking for a host or an employee in an animal suit to greet him, but no one approached. He frowned again and slowly went over to Shawn, feeling exceptionally out of place.

Shawn had seen him as soon as he'd entered, and as Lassiter began moving toward him, he grinned and gestured to the seat opposite him. “Lassie, hi! This pizza is terrible—have some.” He lifted an oily triangle from the pie and slid a paper plate beneath it as Lassiter sat down. 

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want some if it was terrible?”

Shawn shrugged and picked a pepperoni off of the slice on his own plate. He popped it into his mouth, glanced around the room, and then looked back at Lassiter, his face and his tone serious. “There's going to be a birthday party here in about half an hour,” he said in a low voice. “It's not really Little Johnny's debut into double digits, though—it's a drug ring. Some of the presents are cocaine, pills, meth—you know, the really good stuff Santa never brings—and some are cash. Some of the adults are gang members, come to collect, and some are people paying up what they owe as distributors.”

Now Lassiter raised both eyebrows. If true, that _was_ a legitimate case. “And you know this how?” If he said he'd had a vision...

“A woman came into the Psych office last week and told us her son went to a party for some kid in his class.” Shawn sipped his soda and set the glass back down. “According to her son, there was another party going on at the same time, and this other kid got eleventy-jillion presents, but he didn't care about them once they were opened—like, all he did was rip off the paper and move on to the next one, he didn't even take the toys out of the boxes or look at any of them—so her son got all jealous and stole one of the cards when the adults were all whispering together and the birthday kid was dishing out the game tokens. Our client just walked into her son's room and caught him sitting on his bed with two thousand dollars in small bills. She made him tell her all about the party and what happened, and she thought it was really suspicious, but she didn't want to call the cops because she wanted to keep the money. She still wanted to know exactly what her son was exposed to, though, and he was too young to really know what was up, so she came to me to see if I could tell her if her son was in danger.”

“Uh-huh. And how did you come to know exactly what was going on?”

Shawn grinned briefly. “I'm _really_ good at skee ball, and Gus thinks he owns the air hockey table.”

“Of course,” Lassiter said dryly.

“There are mirrors on the ceilings in strategic locations,” Shawn went on, nodding up at them. Lassiter glanced up and saw that he was right. “They're mostly for management to watch for pervs being weird with kids, but I kept an eye on them while moving around to different games, and I could see some of adult party guests checking the 'gifts' to make sure the drugs were in there or that the amount of money was right.”

“And they didn't get suspicious of you? I assume you weren't here with a child.”

“No, but I did win eleventy-jillion tickets, and as soon as the kids realized I was giving them away to whoever was closest, they started hanging around me and cheering me on when I kept winning.” Shawn snorted. “There was a crowd of them and they all high-fived me when the tickets came pouring out, so any one of them _could_ have known me or been mine.”

Lassiter gave him a considering look. “You like kids?” he blurted after a moment.

Shawn paused and then he shrugged again. “Sure, yeah. As long as they're not covered in anything sticky or having a screaming fit about not taking a nap or whatever. They can be funny and cute, I guess. You can teach them all sorts of crap and they can be surprising. I like that.”

Lassiter made a small noise of assent. It was quiet for a few seconds, and then he brought the topic back around to their business. “Your evidence of this purported drug ring?” he prompted.

Shawn pulled out his phone and set it next to his glass of Sprite. “I have video of one of them taking an Easy Bake Oven box from a little girl and turning around, opening it up, and checking out the bags of what Gus said were Oxycontin inside. Then someone handed another adult a birthday card and he opened it up, handed the card to the kid, and flipped through the stack of cash that was left in the envelope.”

“How were you able to obtain such a video?”

Shawn's eyes flicked up again, and Lassiter turned slightly, seeing a large series of colorful plastic tubes big enough for children to crawl through. “Gus and I hid out in them and spied. I set him there—” He pointed to a bright pink juncture that was solid plastic, where someone on the ground wouldn't be able to see through it, “—with a huge bag of candy to turn away any kids that might come along. Then I mostly stayed in the ones that went over the tables, and the grates in the bottom for air flow meant I could look down and listen. They didn't know we were there, and no kids crawled through the clear ones where they'd be able to see them and know someone was coming, so they stayed right under me and showed me the money. And the drugs. I have a couple of different video clips and you can see that the same people are present at different parties. I was stomping Gus into the air hockey field of dreams yesterday, so I don't have video, but I'm pretty sure the kids either belong to the gang members or they're the kids of the dealers, because the parties are all for the same boy and girl, who don't seem to care about the presents because it's not actually their birthday. They do get all the game tokens and cake they want, though.” He clicked his tongue. “Yesterday, the little girl was complaining that she was tired of the crappy pizza and that she was bored with the games, and the man she was whining to told her to keep being good anyway, because the parties were working out really well, and if she did he'd take her to ride horses next week. She seemed to think that was good enough, and she sat through the Happy Birthday song again.”

“I'm sure,” Lassiter said, thinking that his mother could likely have gotten him to behave a few times as a child with the same promise. “What about the staff here?”

“Some bribed, some so sick of birthday parties that they don't notice or care that it's the same people,” Shawn said. “Yesterday there were three parties going on at once—it was so busy then that they might not have noticed anyway.”

“And no one thought you or Guster were suspicious? Even if you had been here with a child, you were also here multiple times.”

“I told you,” Shawn said loftily, sticking his nose in the air. “I am a skee ball legend. Actually, one parent of a kid from a legitimate party thought it was weird that I was here at all, and she started asking me which kid was mine, like trying to figure out if I was being gross or anything. I told her I was trying to get skee ball on the Olympic roster—right before skiing, in fact—and then I played a perfect game in front of her and just let the tickets build up.”

Lassiter frowned at the deserted game area. “And how do you know there's going to be one of these parties here in—” He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes?”

“I stole an ink pen off the hostess's station, and then I schmoozed the girl with the appointment book and got her to write down her number on a napkin for me.”

He started to go on, but Lassiter interrupted him in a flat voice. “Did you.”

“Yes,” Shawn said steadily. “And then, after Gus and I left, he started to sneeze and I handed it to him. He threw it away.” Shawn looked at him for a moment, but when Lassiter didn't say anything to that, he continued. “When she was looking for another pen, I got a look at the calendar. It was upside down, but I saw the bookings for today and the past couple of weeks; they always have their parties at three-thirty or six-thirty.”

Lassiter raised his eyebrows again. “How long did it take her to find a pen?”

Shawn shrugged. “A few seconds—she had another one in her apron. Why?”

“And you figured out their pattern from looking at the calendar upside down for a few seconds?”

Shawn was quiet for a long moment, and then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just turned the picture around in my memory and looked at it after Gus and I were back in our office.” Lassiter frowned, not making much sense of that, and Shawn smiled a little. “I... okay, it's like this. Ever since I was a kid, I just... see things. I notice things—stuff most people wouldn't or couldn't. My dad helped me train my mind to be able to know what the things I saw meant. I remember everything I see. Everything. I can even look at what I saw later and figure out new stuff from it. So... that's, uh, really useful when it comes to investigating a case.”

Shawn licked his lips nervously while Lassiter gazed at him. “Say it,” he directed after a long moment.

“Um... it's called an eidetic memory. I'm hyper-observant and... I don't know, I have a pretty high IQ, I guess...” Shawn shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, but Lassiter wasn't about to let him slide away from it this time.

“Shawn,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. Shawn looked at him, his eyes a little wide, but he wasn't blinking rapidly and his hands were still. “Say it.”

“I'm not psychic,” he said, sounding breathless. 

Lassiter finally smiled at him. He reached for his own phone with one hand, to call Chief Vick to let her know about the drugs and money and the fact that there would be children present, and he laid his other hand on top of Shawn's, looking into his scared, hopeful hazel eyes. “I know,” he said.

Almost eight hours later, Lassiter sat down wearily behind his desk in the deserted bullpen. There was still a mountain of paperwork to complete—and a good portion of it was his alone, a bargain made to placate O'Hara, who had been annoyed that he'd gone to meet Shawn about a case without her—but he was exhausted from the arrests and the interrogations, and he was starving, since he hadn't eaten since lunch. It was almost midnight and he'd be going home soon, but first he had some unfinished business that required his attention. When he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter looked up to see Shawn perched on the edge of the chair across from his desk.

“You can get your consultation check tomorrow,” Lassiter told him. “Vick will probably tell you herself later, but she said she approved of you managing to inform the proper authorities of your _vision_ regarding the birthday parties instead of getting yourself tangled up in them this time.”

“That can totally be a trend-setter,” Shawn said. He had an odd look on his face, and just as Lassiter was about to ask him to explain it, he shook his head a little as if he was confused. “You're actually... going to go along with it? I mean, I know that C—that _others_ have... but you hated it.”

He had hated it... but, as Shawn had just barely avoided saying, Lassiter's mirror-self had had a point in his procedure of allowing Shawn to continue to play a psychic to consult on cases. It was going to be easier: he could investigate his way—his not-entirely-safe-or-even-legal way—and skip the explanations and red tape by saying it came to him a dream or some such nonsense. It had been his M.O. for the past several years, and it had worked for him. He worked (outside of the law sometimes, but not unacceptably so—most of the time), and he solved cases; therefore, he and Guster deserved to be paid for their work.

“A couple of conditions,” Lassiter said. “You keep me in the loop—I want to know what you're up to if you're going to be somewhere you have no business being. If it gets dicey, you call me. At once.” He paused. “And you stay safe. No charging into dangerous situations. When you know something, you call me.”

Shawn grinned. “I know lots of things.”

“Yeah? So do I, believe it or not.”

“Like what?” Shawn asked quickly.

Lassiter scrubbed a hand over his face, closing his tired eyes for a few seconds and feeling the stubble on his cheeks. “Like... I'm incredibly hungry and there's an all-night diner on Cypress Street that will serve fresh homemade pizza even at midnight. It's miles better than the wedge of grease you tried to get me to eat earlier.”

“Sounds delicious,” Shawn said and waited.

Lassiter stood up and slid his jacket onto his arms. “I'll buy. Do you like green peppers?”

Shawn stood up and hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets while Lassiter adjusted his holster and made sure he had his cell phone and keys. “No—ham and pineapple. You like that?”

“Never had it.”

Shawn grinned again and it lit up his face. “Excellent! I so want to be there when you try it for the first time. Trust me, it's amazing.”

Lassiter doubted that—the reason he'd never partaken in Hawaiian pizza was that he had been certain that the idea of tropical fruit on a pizza, especially one so sweet as pineapple, would be disgusting. But the fried peanut butter and jelly had sounded disgusting too... and if he was going to trust Shawn, to perhaps try any number of new things with him, eating a new kind of pizza with him after a long day might be a good place to start. 

“All right.” Lassiter nodded. 

Shawn kept smiling and stepped closer to him, as if to follow, but then he stopped when Lassiter stayed as he was. He blinked and raised his eyebrows, but Lassiter didn't respond yet; he was thinking. He didn't know where this was going right now, or where it would end up, but two things seemed certain: they were moving forward, and they were doing it together. He didn't like things to be open-ended; he preferred black and white, not grey. Yes or no, not maybe. He looked at Shawn and was about to say these things when he saw Shawn's face go solemn; he took his hands out of his pockets, straightened his shoulders, and clasped his hands behind his back, gazing up at Lassiter openly. 

Lassiter took in a breath, recognizing the posture mirror-Shawn had used when he was casually submissive. He was nearly standing at attention, a stance one would assume in the presence of a commanding officer. The tip of Shawn's tongue poked out of his mouth and touched his upper lip before disappearing, and the sight of it, along with everything Shawn was saying to him right now without a word, dispelled the last of his hesitation. Lassiter moved closer to him, looking into his eyes as he gently put one hand on the side of his face and traced the line of his jaw with his thumb. Shawn's eyes widened, the hope in them clearer than mirror glass, and then Lassiter bent his neck down and kissed him. Shawn moaned into his mouth, just a little, and, when Lassiter pulled back, he bit his lower lip for a second, his eyes now hazy with pleasure; he didn't speak yet, though—he stayed exactly as he was, waiting to be told what was going to happen next. 

Lassiter smiled at him. “Good boy,” he said softly.


	20. Chapter 20

Shawn leaned down and spat his toothpaste into the sink. He admired how pink and foamy it was for a moment while he filled a Dixie cup to rinse his mouth, and then, as he raised his head and the cup, his eyes flicked to the mirror in front of him, and he paused. It had been five months since the craziest days of his life had changed everything; for the better, no doubt, but once in a while he would casually glance at a mirror and then find himself staring into it, most times not even confirming the status of his hair. He stared now, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful, swishing the water around as he studied his eyes, his face, the bathroom wall behind him.

Lassie's voice from the bedroom startled him slightly and he momentarily froze, looking like an exceptionally oral hygiene-oriented chipmunk with his cheeks full of water and cinnamon-flavored Colgate. “Shawn, are you going to stay in there all night?” Lassie sounded a little cranky, but Shawn knew all of his vocal inflections much better now: he was impatient, and not for the bathroom, but for his bedmate. “Some of us do have to work in the morning.”

Shawn quirked an eyebrow at his reflection, thinking, _Some? Who are you including in that? Who else is here? Should we do a census or a telephone poll? I could work in the morning. I could climb a telephone pole to do the telephone poll. I bet I would get great cell reception up there._

As he bent his neck to spit again, his eyes dropping to the sink, he thought he saw that his reflection remained standing, his mirror-eyes tracking him as he moved.

Shawn spat fast and nearly choked, looking back up with his eyes wide. His reflection seemed to be what it should: his hair was gelled exactly as he'd fixed it that morning, he was still wearing a Ninja Turtles t-shirt and the faint remains of a hickey on the side of his neck, and his eyes were sharp and suspicious. The bathroom in the mirror showed Lassie's robe and Shawn's robe hanging side-by-side on the wall, the shelf in the wall of the shower crammed with Johnson's Baby Shampoo, Axe, and Old Spice, and two magazines stacked on the tank of the throne: one _Guns & Ammo_ and one _Inside View_. The splash page of article contents on Shawn's even showed two of the titles he'd read the day before: _Former NASCAR driver tests positive for speed!_ and _Google spokesperson confirms eventual world domination plans!_

“Imagined it,” he muttered, not wanting Lassie to hear him. He stuck his fingers in the corners of his mouth and stuck out his tongue; however, instead of grinning afterward, he continued to look into the mirror solemnly. “I hope you got home,” he said softly, watching his own face and his own eyes carefully. “I guess we'll never know—which is kinda good, when you think about it—but I really do. I'm not sorry it all happened, especially not with how everything turned out, but I really have no idea where you ended up and if you were ever able to get back where you belonged.” 

He paused, raised his hand toward the mirror, and then stopped with his fingers a few inches from the glass. No... he was almost positive that he hadn't seen what he thought he had—it must have been the light, or the power of suggestion (even though it was his own mind suggesting it), since he had just been thinking about it. But who wanted to know for sure? Who wanted to try it and find he was wrong? Someone much stronger than Shawn Spencer, Original Flavor, that's who. 

“I guess it probably worked out no matter what,” Shawn told his reflection quietly. “You had him with you, and that's all that really matters, right?”

Mirror-Shawn smiled and winked at him. 

Shawn could feel his mouth drop open and his eyes widen, but the mirror didn't reflect that immediately—he still looked at a Shawn that was grinning at him with an open door showing a long hallway behind him. Shawn glanced over his shoulder, _just to make sure_ , and yes, all he saw was their bathroom with its light green walls. He looked back into the mirror slowly, ready to flinch, but all he saw was himself again. _Really_ himself. He let out a breath in one hard gust and, before he could stop himself, laid his hand on the surface of the mirror. Glass. Solid, slightly cold, extremely-present glass. 

He stood in the bathroom for a few moments, not sure if he should tell Lassie or if he should just avoid all mirrors for the rest of his life and leave his hair to chance. Other-Shawn had gotten the book of spells; he had apparently deliberately dissolved the barrier between their worlds, either just to say hi or to gloat that could do it. Probably a little of both. Shawn grabbed the hand towel from the bar and went to work erasing his fingerprints from the mirror so Lassie wouldn't see them.

“Shawn Spencer, you are obnoxious and irritating and a know-it-all, show-off asshole,” he said firmly as he wiped, and then he nodded in understanding. “But I'm glad you got home,” he continued in a lower voice. Other-Shawn probably couldn't hear him now, but his Good Twin would know. He would've seen both bath robes hanging up behind Shawn and would know that he and Lassie had gotten a home of their own. (Much sooner than Other-Shawn and Carlton had, but then, Shawn and Lassie had a lot of time to make up, and they had been shown proof that it _was_ going to work as long as they both worked at it.) Shawn gazed into the mirror for another moment, and then he turned around, switched off the bathroom light, and walked into the biggest part of his own world.

.

Lassiter looked up from the case file he was reading when Shawn finally came back from the bathroom. “There you are,” he said pointedly. “I was beginning to wonder if you fell in.” He paused, realizing that the comment his mother had used with him as a child could have several meanings for them now. “The john,” he clarified. “Not... you know.”

Shawn patted himself in a few places. “Nope, still here,” he confirmed. “And there's just one of me, if you'd like to count.”

“Good,” Lassiter said, putting his folder aside as Shawn nudged off his slippers and got into bed next to him. “That's about all I can handle.”

“Ooh,” Shawn said, grinning and leaning in closer. “Are you going to _handle_ me, Detective? Are you going to lean on me like a wise-cracking con?”

“Yes,” Lassiter said, and he did.

Later, just as he was drowsing to sleep with Shawn in his arms, Shawn stirred, the stubble on his chin grazing the skin on Lassiter's shoulder. “Carlton?”

“Hmm.”

“Do you think they got home? That they're happy?”

Lassiter was about to ask him who he was talking about, and then he knew; they didn't talk about _them_ , not intentionally, but, once in a while, _they_ came up and he and Shawn both would know to whom _they_ referred. He didn't answer right away, however—he thought for a minute, one hand gently stroking Shawn's arm and feeling the warmth of him. “I don't know, and I don't care,” he said at last.

“Really?” Shawn sounded doubtful.

“Really. All I care about, Shawn, is that _we_ are. We're home here and we're happy.” He pulled him a little closer and kissed him. “They're out of here, and they went together.”

“And we're here, and we're together.” Lassiter could feel Shawn smile against his shoulder as he settled back down. “I'm never moving from this position, just so you know. You can detective like this; it'll be cozy.”

Lassiter snorted softly instead of correcting Shawn on his use of 'detective' as a verb. “Sure.” There was a long silence, and then he asked, “Are you going to work this new case with me tomorrow?”

Shawn yawned. “His brother did it,” he mumbled.

Lassiter's eyes flew open. “How do you know?” he hissed. 

Shawn didn't answer—he had fallen asleep. Lassiter considered prodding him and making him explain it at once, but there was always the morning; Shawn would hop up on the bar, swinging his feet and chattering while Lassiter himself made them breakfast, and he would explain how he'd come to that conclusion. Then they would eat together and, once Lassiter had given Shawn permission to drop by the police department with tales of a 'vision' he'd had regarding the case, they would work together. He settled back against his pillow and closed his eyes, content to know the answer later because Shawn was always the answer. 

Case closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini-playlist:
> 
> [So Tell Me Why - Poison](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJuwqHeL9LQ)  
> [I Touch Myself – Divinyls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wv-34w8kGPM)  
> [Song of Storms – CSGuitar89](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vF_foxXkGMs)  
> [Parallel Universe – Red Hot Chili Peppers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmyw0UsLYPw)  
> [Whitewash – Gin Blossoms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GI3mNupO7RI)  
> [You Might Think – The Cars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHzUjndMYZ8)  
> [Hungry Eyes – Eric Carmen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRpbzj1hTCA)


End file.
